


clear blue water

by ItsADrizzit, kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Tennis, Audio Book, Audio Format: M4B, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Embedded Audio, Embedded Images, M/M, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 5-6 Hours, Resentment, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-06-13 10:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15362265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: Eric Dier owns a tennis academy in Portugal, and has a cash flow problem. Salvation comes in a sum of money, but there are strings attached. Dele Alli shaped strings, in fact. Dele is escaping scandal, and his partner is offering money for Dele to hide out at his place away from the eyes of the British press. Truth be told, neither of them are ready to see each other again, not after the way things ended between them all those years ago.





	1. Podfic

**Author's Note:**

>   * This fic is an AU and the leads are five years older: Twenty seven and twenty nine respectively
>   * The villages Eric and Caro live in are fictional, but based on real places. Same for the tennis academy
>   * Handwaving everything tennis and ATP related. The world of football agents is _something_ , so I'm handwaving that too
> 

> 
> Podfic Notes:  
> The "Music" version of this podfic contains music as an intro, outro, and in the chapter breaks with some music under spoken word. It also includes sound effects and layering of sound beneath the text in most of the chapters as well as occasional music with vocals below the spoken word. A "non-music" version has also been provided for those who prefer just the spoken audio with a few text effects.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the podfic file for the whole work. Podfic files for individual chapters can be found at the top of the entry for each chapter.
> 
> A MILLION SHOUT OUTS to the Pod-Together mods and Paraka for hosting the files for me!

 

  
Cover art by: [ItsADrizzit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/itsadrizzit)

**Read by** : [ItsADrizzit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit)  
**Written by** : [kaixo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo)

 **Music Version** :  
[M4B](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2018/Football%20RPF_Clear%20Blue%20Water_Music.m4b) [270 MB, 06:20:43]  
[MP3 and streaming](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2018/Football%20RPF_%20Clear%20Blue%20Water_Music.mp3) [189 MB, 06:20:43] 

**Non-music Version** :  
[M4B](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2018/Football%20RPF_Clear%20Blue%20Water_noMusic.m4b) [246 MB, 06:12:06]  
[MP3 and streaming](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2018/Football%20RPF_%20Clear%20Blue%20Water_NoMusic.mp3) [130 MB, 06:12:06]

**Podfic Outtakes--in which I attempt to figure out how to speak ANY languages** :  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Writer's note. Please listen to the work, especially the enhanced version. It's brilliant, and Itsadrizzit does a splendid job with the emotional heft of the work and the soundscapes. It's a living, breathing world. Thank you!**

**Music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/6huv00b0iggqc8t/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter1_music.mp3?dl=0) [19.5 MB, 00:39:47]  


**Non-music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/no7b1jqq0gyv41j/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter1_NoMusic.mp3?dl=0) [14.5 MB, 00:38:21]  


_The heart slips backward, remembering, remembering_  
\- Anne Sexton

 

“You absolute madman,” Winks hissed at Dele, both of them flanked by a wall of bouncers, hemming them in. The bouncers weren’t here for Winks, his sharp slash of eyebrows drawn into a frown, his mouth a thin line. Their... detail if you wanted to call it that, assembled because of him. 

Dele gingerly pressed at his jaw with the flat of his palm, hoping that he wouldn’t need dental work. The screams and muttered disbelief peppered the air around them. Dele craned his neck, but giving up because he couldn’t see through the forest of people. Security guards crowded in about six deep. 

Giving up the attempt to try and peer through the thicket of people, he lifted his head up, zeroing on the oversized screen installed to the right of the stage, for everyone to see who received what award from whom. 

The stage clear, but the cameras kept rolling, with people surrounding the gentleman who had ran into a fist.  
A few minutes ago, the air sizzled with screams of surprise and outrage, giving way to the confused shouts and hushed whispers.  
The elegant ballroom of the Parkhotel Schoenbrunn, once the former guest house of Emperor Franz Joseph I, entertained lavish balls over the ages, and composers such as Johann Strauss the younger had their poncy works premiered here. 

It was strange the things that came to you as the anger ebbed, and the details of the world trickled in.  
The chandelier throwing out shards of light like a starburst against the picture ceilings of clouds, heaven and skies. The deeply striking colour combination of maroon and gold threaded through the interiors: walls, chairs and crisscrossing the carpet beneath their feet. 

Dele dragged the back of his hand against his open mouth, half surprised it came away clean. 

Five minutes before everyone had been playing nicely: most of the agents based in UEFA territories had come together for dinner, a breaking of bread. Ostensibly an awards show for agents to recognise their own achievements, it was normally a staid, solemn affair. A celebration of their achievements in a world that denounced the very idea of them.  
Dele’s actions put paid to that. He flexed his fist, wincing at the broken skin there, but Woodrow had gotten off worse.  
He deserved it, the prick. 

“I’m not sorry,” he spat, voice sharp and edgy. His body shaky with the aftermath of the rush of blood to his head, Dele backed up against the wall, his legs unsteady and giving way, sliding against it into a heap in the corner. His elbows on his knees, his suit askew and torn. At least, he looked at his dress shoes against the carpet’s muted print, they hadn’t been scuffed. 

“Christ,” Winks muttered darkly, eyes on the scene playing out in front of them in the foreground. Woodrow writhing on the floor with the theatrics of a La Liga football player trying to draw a card against his opponent from a referee. “Don’t let anyone hear that.”

“He knows,” Dele spat, unrepentant. “It’s been coming for a long time.”

“We don’t fight at this level, Dele. We sue. And -- oh, shit.”

Dele looked at the goons around him, shifted his gaze to Winks, and mouthed, “what?”  
Winks gestured, the world suddenly charging in. The photographers with their cameras at the ready like cocked guns, mobile phone lights bright and clustered as stars. TV cameras for UEFA and various sub news stations rolling.  
The flame of Dele’s anger icing over with unease as the penny dropped, but Winks finished his point anyway.  
“This is going to be on video, and big.”  
Nothing to say but, “shit.”  
“Remember that holiday you’ve been thinking about taking for a while now?” Winks asked casually, his voice loud enough for people around them to tilt their heads in their direction. Dele didn’t know where Winks was going with this, but he instinctively followed his friend’s lead. Made his voice soft, his tone contrite. 

“Yeees?”

“‘Cause you were under stress. Lots and lots of stress?”

Winks laying it on as thick as clotted cream on scones, but, Dele knew his role. “It’s a part of the job,” he played along, hitting notes of aggrieved whining. “You know how it is. But that doesn’t mean--”

“You’re suspended,” Winks snapped, done for the benefit of their audience, both real and imagined. You always had sports journalists to drop information on both radio and sports podcasts for context and excuse. They’d fill in the blanks that Winks couldn’t be bothered to. “You might as well take a holiday.”

“But---”  
“Effective immediately.”

Something sharp and different in Winks’s voice. Dele tilted his head to look up at his friend, regretted the movement as his neck muscles clicked. 

“I hear the Algarve is nice this time of year,” Winks muttered, still looking at the scene before them.

***

Nora pushed the sheaf of papers across the scarred surface of the table.

“It a legitimate offer,” she began, voice bright with the Irish burr clinging to every syllable, even though she’d lived in this part of the world for over half a decade. “Everything’s on the up and up. It’s a relatively straightforward agreement.”

Eric tentatively touched the edge of the papers, as if afraid of being bitten. His skin goosebumping as if chilled, despite the weather report on his phone saying thirty three degrees C. Not that he doubted his phone, but he lifted his head, looked at the sky around them. The time of day dimming the brightness of the sun, making the sky blue instead the strange white hot glare you had earlier in the day this time of year. 

With his index finger and thumb, he leafed through the contract slowly, his eyes drawn to the figure at the end of the page, the conditions spelt out.

 _God_ , Eric closed his eyes for a brief minute, massaging his temple with the index and forefinger of his other hand. 

He’d been afraid of that. 

Had hoped against hope that this had been a joke set out by Kyle. Of all the people he knew, Kyle Walker was the only one with the resources to be committed and idle enough for such a full fledged prank; to the point where Eric half expected to be an unwilling participant on _Smile, The Joke’s On You!_ an English speaking programme broadcast from Belgium which had caught on in a big way across Europe in the last eighteen months. _Coming to a town near you!_ the message presented at the end of each broadcast with a jaunty grin and a wink by their attractive dreadlocked presenter. 

With his life such as it was at the moment, Eric took that cheery sign off as a threat, not a promise. 

That’s why he’d sent the contract to his lawyer, Nora. Half expecting her to text him with a message of, “Someone’s pulling your leg, tell them to pull the other one. I’ll sort it. ” Not, “Hey, I’m at Faro airport, give me an hour, give or take. We need to talk.”

“I--” Eric started. “Of all the things I expected to hear, it wasn’t that.”

“It’s money, and you need it,” Nora shrugged her shoulders, her stare hazel eyed and frank. As a nod to the weather, they’d taken to outside. The porch enough of a shade from the sun, although not the heat. That sort of dry, arid weather that made your throat constantly parched, forcing you to have a bottle of water by your hip at all times. Eric’s assistant had done one better, having a pitcher of lemon infused water with two glasses on the table between them. The table and chairs made of stout, aged wood which came with the property. “And it’s there, so--”

“It has strings attached,” Eric cut in, his voice brusque, but Nora was too used to his moods to be even the slightest bit concerned. She fanned at her face with her hands, sunlight catching the chunky rings on her index and middle fingers. Clad in a long sleeved green shirt, she must have been melting, even though the fabric was silk. Her face and hands still milk maiden pale, freckles scattered across the backs of her hands and upturned wrists like constellations. 

“All money has strings attached,” Nora retorted, rolling her shoulders. “That’s why it’s complicated.”

“The wit and wisdom of Nora Kwong,” Eric raised an eyebrow, his voice dry. 

“ _Ach_ , come off it, lad,” Nora laughed, tapping at the top of the document with an indigo tipped fingernail. “This isn’t _so_ complicated. For one, it’s not illegal, and two, you’re being asked to keep schtum. If people are going to be looking for him, no one is going to thinking about a small tennis school in the Algarve. “

Eric could feel his elbows migrating to his ears. With a pained sigh, he forced his shoulders to relax, to drop away. Remembering what his Yoga instructor used to say to him - back when he did it religiously- about only focusing on movement and breath. 

“Nora... I don’t know.”

Nora didn’t say a word. Her features cool and composed, she linked her fingers together. She shifted her body, leaning forward, elbows on the table, her eyes calm and on him. 

“Eric, this offer is time sensitive. It’s money that you wouldn’t be able to get via loan, because the banks are tightening their rules about short term loans right now, especially given the economic forecasts for the next two to five years.”

“How long?” As if he hadn’t read the document, and didn’t know. 

“Twenty eight hours to respond, before his people make other arrangements. They’ve asked for an answer by two pm British standard time tomorrow. I’m staying near Praia de Faro, you can stop by and tell me then.”

***

“Wow,” Hugo blinked.

Hard. 

“That’s a name I haven’t heard in awhile.” _Not from you, anyway_ the unspoken part of the sentence loud enough that Hugo didn’t have to say. Eric sat on one of the low benches facing the court, a tennis racket in hand. He twirled it back and forth, his fingers dancing across the grip of the handle. His hands automatically righting the balance, noting the weight and balance of it, from butt to tip. 

He looked up and out, taking in everything; sunset now, the sky twilight, causing the flood lights to flicker and throw their lights on the courts. This was his, all his, that he’d dumped money, blood and sweat and tears in, and --

“Yeah. It’s been a while.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Hugo said after a hum, his hands in the pockets of his light coloured shorts. “Although, anywhere Dele goes doesn’t become a secret for long, _non_?”

“Yeah.”

 

“And if it’s not a secret---” Hugo rolled his shoulders, did that shrug only the French could do, elegant and careless at the same time. “It can only --”  
“I don’t want it, or him anywhere near _this_ , he can’t-” Eric fumed, springing to his feet, swinging his tennis racket to and fro. Without saying a word, Hugo grabbed at one nearest to the bench, along with three tennis balls, and stepped out onto the baseline.

Feet parallel to the baseline, Hugo bounced the ball twice, and in a neat, fluid motion, he tossed the ball high up in the air, swinging his racket head up, its head connecting with the ball, the _thowck_ sound of the ball indicating he’d hit the sweet spot. Instinct overcoming thought, Eric _reacted_ , getting into position and returning the shot. 

It wasn’t a game, as much as a warm up, hitting the ball to and fro between them, their movements languid and slow, mostly due to the weather being so close. The heat a strength sapper, made you lethargic and stupid. 

The noise of the ball rhythmic, the squeak of their trainers against the court’s surface, his footwork covering the field as taught; to the ball within two steps, arm in a straight line, the face of the tennis racket up and out. Almost a meditation, better than yoga, and slow enough for him to take in his work, this plot of land just outside of Albufeira. In the space of six years, he’d toiled and built up all of this: two red clay courts, four hard courts - including this one he and Hugo shared now - floodlit- the white markings bright under the lights. 

The hollow _thwock_ of the ball on the court as it batted from racket face to racket face sharper and faster as they warmed up, and suddenly- Eric realised as he glided to the edge of the tennis court to return the ball to Hugo - it had become a game. 

And just like that - he allowed the ball to drop. For Hugo to get the point in more ways than one.  
Eric didn’t need to look up to know how Hugo felt. But he raised his head anyway, allowed the face of his racket to drop below his waist. 

“Sorry.”

“Eric-”

“I have too much on my mind,” Eric sighed, absently slicing his racket through the air as he made his way to the net that spliced the court in half. “I -- “ he looked up at the sky above them. Years ago, when he was a boy, this specific part of Portugal used to be semi-rural, so much so that you could lift your head, look at the inky sky and see the clusters of stars that stretched across the universe. Nowadays with light pollution, you didn’t see a fraction of the stars like you used to. An indicator of change tied to progress, he knew, but still, he missed seeing the stars. 

“I--” Eric began, eyes still fixed at the sky, looking beyond the floodlights that washed the area around them in light. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to be tied here,” Hugo began, his voice soft and thoughtful. “You’re still young, and --”

“There’s nothing else,” Eric tore his gaze from the sky, and looked at his friend. Hugo’s big, dark eyes in such a calm, narrow face. “I want nothing else.”

Hugo’s smile at him one of comfort and warmth, the distance shrinking between them as he reached across the net and gave Eric a gentle punch on his shoulder. “Go to sleep, and think about it, yes?”

***

“I can’t say yes,” Eric said in greeting as he slipped into his chair opposite Nora on the outdoor patio. They were at a little cafe not too far from Faro airport. The food itself middling - mostly snacks and light bites. You came here for the view. The view, oh _the view_ : the sweep of ocean, edging the crescent shaped white sandy coastline, waters edging from ultramarine to midnight blue in the distance, forever restless and seething with life. The sun’s light bouncing on its surface, the waves cresting and crashing against the shore. This is why people made the pilgrimage, at the risk of getting burnt coffee served with too sweet fig and almond cake for their troubles.

Nora had been one of those, having strong coffee with said fig and almond cake; Eric waving off her offer of food. Normally, he would have taken his sunglasses off out of courtesy, but the glare of the light and the sun dancing on the surface of the sea put paid to that idea. 

“But I can’t say no either,” he finished, not even bothering to hide his feelings, his voice harsh and bitter. “I’ll sign the contract, I’ll take the money.”

“Eric,” Nora’s eyes widened, before they softened with understanding. “I--”

“You said they wanted an answer by two pm British time, yeah?” Eric barrelled on, not wanting to hear Nora’s coos of sympathy. That’s my answer. There’s no other way.”

Nora nodded. “I’ll get in touch, and send the paperwork on today. It’s only four weeks, Eric. The world won’t end in four weeks.”

Eric’s smile mirthless, a curve of lip that had no warmth to it. He had experienced heartbreak in the space of four minutes, but that was neither here nor there. 

**Faro airport**

After showing his passport to the unsmiling officer behind the glass, Dele pushed past customs, stepping into arrivals, his backpack slung over his shoulder, passport in hand. Baseball cap drawn firmly over his head, shades perched on his face, he scanned the crowds looking for his meet. Faro airport was pretty popular, known for its gateway to the Algarve, greeting Northern Europeans who descended in droves with a burst of constant sunlight. Even now, at the end of the season, the backend of August edging into September, the place heaved with people. 

Languages and people flowed freely past and around him like a stone in a riverbed. From the bawdy, broad notes of English from his fellow Brits who were already drunk; either on pints that were sold too early at Luton airport, or those who bought alcohol in duty free and started spiking their drinks mid flight. The Germans and Dutch speakers quieter, but already exchanging exciting ideas of what they were going to do and where. People didn’t hang about, some already heading for the exits and taxis with their carry ons at the ready. Others gathered around the carousel, tapping at their phones, or speaking with their companions, waiting on their bags to slowly creep past. 

Dele would have prefered a charter aircraft, but Winks shot that down. 

“It’s only you,” he groused, not looking up from his laptop. “It’s too expensive. Also, you’re already in the shit, we might be looking at a fine, and the last thing we need is dodgy optics.”

What was there to say but an apologetic, “I know.”

“Anyway, Husna will meet you there,” Winks finished, pushing his dark fringe from his forehead. He’d forgotten to apply gel to it before coming into work, and he’d been annoying himself all day with his hair falling over his eyes. 

“Okay.”

“Be good,” Winks shot him a level look across the screen of his laptop. “Or if not, just... do us a favour and don’t have it on video?”

“I’m off,” Dele said as his phone vibrated in his pocket. “That’s Ruben. We’ll speak later.”

“Later,” Winks returned his attention to his screen. 

Back to now, Dele’s attention snagged on a bright pink A4 sized paper, the name printed in block text. HARRY WINKS, it said. 

Walking over to the lady of South Asian descent holding the sign, he took her in. Her face a sweet oval shape framed by the light fabric of her hijab, her eyes large and expressive, her lips slicked with the colour of cranberry- curved into a smile. The rest of her outfit smart, an embroidered smock over jeans finished by a pair of matte black heels with silver studs. 

“Dele,” she said. 

“Husna,” he smirked a greeting. Husna slipped her phone out the pocket of her tunic, tapped at the screen. Looked at Dele before giving him a nod. 

“Let’s go this way,” she pointed to the exits in the distance. Oversized rotating glass doors past the Hertz car rental hire, the heat already putting his deodorant under stress as they stepped outside. The glare of the sunlight testing the lens of his sunglasses, making his eyes squint behind them. 

“ _So_ ,” Husna drawled, her South London accent reminding him of home. Although she’d lived in Portugal for a bit and spoke the language fluently, the softened sibilants of Portuguese hadn’t shaved off the harsh edges of her natural _saauf_ accent at all. “How long will you be here for? Will you be open to buying property, or...”  
“It shouldn’t be that long,” Dele mused, as he quickened his step, following the signs to the park and ride in the distance.  
“Mate,” Husna laughed, causing Dele to slow down, intrigued by what she found so funny. “Don’t walk so quickly. If you move at breakneck speed here, the heat will kill you.”

***

“You didn’t have to meet me,” Dele said later, as they stood in the carpark of the airport. This, like any other airport carpark, a good distance from the airport terminal itself - far enough for them to catch the shuttle, and to be dropped off by the car bays.

He had half expected Husna to drive him to where he needed to go, steeling himself for the awkward conversation, but Husna had done one better. She'd already organised the details for his hired auto, now waiting for him in the carpark. 

"Everything's sorted," she said, her gestures sketching her words. "Winks sent over the details. The documents are in the car, and I’ll send on email attachments by the end of the day.”

"Oh."

"Hmm," Husna raised her eyebrows, her forehead furrowing into faint lines. "He said that you aren’t bad with directions, but --I hired a vehicle with sat nav."

More like a modified 4x4 on this side of tiny. Not the monster SUVs London housewives drove in those smart boroughs of the capital, taking their darlings to school. The roads in this part of the world were narrower, for one, and people smaller, for two. 

"This is you," Husna raised the keys to to shoulder height, and dropped them in Dele's outstretched hand, scrunching her nose with amusement as he caught them. "I don't know if you need a new ph--"

"I'm fine."

"And if you --"

"I'll call you, yeah?" Dele pointed to the car, hearing the heavy, hollow _thwunk_ as the electronics clicked into motion, the car doors unlocked. He threw his backpack into the passenger side as he slid into the driver's seat. 

"Yeah, mate, whatever," Husna took a step back, but grabbed at the door handle before Dele could even close it. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice softening with concern but not _soft_. 

"I'm fine."

"Fair enough," Husna replied after a minute, in tones that told Dele that she didn't believe him. He couldn't blame her, because he didn't believe himself either. 

"Call me if needs be, you have my number," she finished, allowing her hand to fall away as she took a step back in heels entirely too fanciful and impractical for this kind of weather, with softening tarmac underfoot. Husna had small feet that she was vain about, and rocking matte nude Valentino studded heels on soft tarmac was foolish, but her. Also, she seemed to have that invisible bubble of air con where she just never flagged in the heat, her bearing as cool and aloof as a marble statue. 

Dele waited for her to backtrack, to hear something like, _It's none of my business, but..._ before editorializing. Husna didn't even do that, and not for the first time, he understood why Winks trusted her implicitly. She arranged everything asked of her no question, and now, she stepped away, not caring what or where he'd go or do. 

Although it seemed strange, he had wanted her to ask, to push. Just so that he could hold onto his secrets, and not yield. No push back and wasn't that... odd? Him feeling disappointed that she hadn’t done so? 

Years ago, Eric had had a word for it. For him. _Contrary_. 

" _Bom dia_ ," he said, half amused. "I should really start learning the language, eh?" 

"It would help, although everyone speaks English here," Husna threw her hands up and grinned with wicked humour. "Even the Spanish."

"Thanks," Dele drew the door shut, car window down, as they looked at each other for a final time. Her eyes dark and rimmed with kohl, her lips sheened with colour. "Thanks for meeting me, you didn't have to."

"It's fine," Husna waved the sentiment away. "Winks rarely asks for favours, but hands them out like sweets at a party. It's nice to give back."

"Right," Dele slung his seatbelt across his torso, adjusted his rearview mirror and shifted in his seat, okay with the leg room. Nodded in relief at the fact that the car had gears as standard. Giving a big mental thumbs up at the docket for his phone in the dashboard, and whipping it out of his pocket, he tucked it there. 

Turned the key in the ignition, the vehicle roaring to life on the first catch. Dele flashed her a smile, and finally bade his goodbyes. “Cheers for this, and ‘bye.”

" _Tchau_ ,” she wiggled her fingers in a casual wave, the word sounding like the Italian _ciao_. “Oh, and don't forget, James Bond, they drive on the right side of the road here."

Dele hadn’t been to Portugal in _years_. 

He’d been mostly based in London, since that’s where he’d found most of his talent; young and upcoming footballers in the local boroughs. Eventually, he’d branched off to Spain, due to contacts that he’d made along the way, and those contacts growing stronger as his understanding in the language deepened, but Portugal? That had been sewn up by Andrade and Da Rocha, alongside other labyrinthine processes that had replaced the third party ownership ostensibly banned by FIFA -- but there were always loopholes. 

Even with the blast of the air con on frigid, windows up and sealed against the breeze, the sun’s heat made itself felt as it hammered against the windshield and the windows. The semi arid climate shown itself in the geography of prickly trees, the scrub of bush on either side of the broad asphalt of road. The mountains in the distance a sharp, dark, rugged profile against the unyielding flat blue skies. The sun still so hot, everything retreated into quiet desertion, the ground cracked and thirsty. 

A deep contrast with the sea in the distance, placid and blue, towards Sal Rosa, where he had it on good authority where the best parties were-- and yeah, he had to stay away from _that_ part of the world for now. He -- his phone rang, and half wanting to ignore it - but knowing he couldn’t - he reached over and flicked it on to speaker. 

“Dele.”

“Winks,” Dele greeted, his eyes scanning the road before him. At this time of day, with the sun high and its light strong in the sky, no one about save him. Even though the road was clear, the signs signalled no more than sixty kilometres an hour which was... about forty mph in old money. 

“Just called to see if everything was okay, with the ---” Winks’ voice trailed off, and Dele knew that he was finishing his sentences with a vague wave. He’d be reading a screen or a contract, and because it was Dele, not necessarily caring about coming over as involved. “You know.”

“Husna got everything sorted,” Dele answered, hands on the steering wheel, periodically checking his rear view and side mirrors, following the general signs to his destination. He was still a ways from where he needed to be, but he’d be there for supper if his luck held. 

“Brilliant, but then, that’s Husna for you,” Winks’s voice now warm with admiration. “That’s a load off your mind, I bet. So, you’re on your way to Dier’s yeah? Have you called? How is he?”

“I don’t know,” Dele answered, eyes glancing at his phone screen, seeing a picture of Winks’s face smiling at him. For someone in his late twenties, he still looked like an A Level student in the middle of a gap year. 

“Haven’t you spoken to him as yet?”

“Not directly, no.”

“ _Dele_ ,” Winks’s voice sharp with reproach, “you said--”

“Things came up.”

“Yeah,” Winks replied, and you’d think that with the distance and the tinny notes of the phone, his scorn and disappointment wouldn’t have filtered through the speaker, but Winks had his ways. 

“You _promised_ ,” he pressed, his voice hard. “If I sorted everything out, you’d speak to him before you landed in Portugal and --- _Dele_ ,” he broke off, exasperated. “You’re not being fair.”

“He’s taken the money, hasn’t he? That’s fair enough.”

A buzzing silence at this, even over the spin of the wheels on the gravelled road, the few cars now thickening into traffic, as he moved from a dual carriageway thinning into a single file road, giving hints that the local town was near. 

“Dele--” 

“I’m going to have to call you back,” Dele said, gearing down into second, knowing that he’d be here in traffic for a while. “I’m going to need to concentrate.”  
“Fine.” Winks rang off with a click, and Dele knew, it wasn’t going to end there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/5gs2hm15apmms3e/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter2_music.mp3?dl=0) [11.3 MB, 00:21:45]  


**Non-music Version** :  
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**Monto do Carmo, 15 mins outside of Albufeira**

Dele killed the engine, and in same action did away with the music and the a/c.  
The silence rushed into the space where the steady throttle of the engine and the low hum of the a/c kept him company for the past hour, and made its own noise. Windows still up, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel as he looked past the windshield at the building before him. The signage bold, the paint bright. 

BEM-VINDO the sign boomed its welcome, and he slumped in his seat, eyes narrowing as he took in the sign and its surroundings. 

Patch of faded green grass, large, umbrella shaped shade trees he couldn’t identify off to the side, with two dogs sprawled by their roots. If he had to hazard a guess, the dogs were labradors, with their characteristic boxy heads and bodies, and distinct faces and tails. One a buttermilk yellow, the other inky black. He couldn’t blame them half dozing because even at this time of day, now edging into the evening, the heat sapped your energy, made you drowsy. 

A short distance beyond but midground, a small porch with wicker chairs on either side of small glass tables, situated in front of glass fronted doors, the white stencil signage also saying BEM-VINDO. Dele assumed the rest of the blurred words were schedules of dates and times. In the background, to the left of the building, behind chain link fencing, he made out tennis courts - ranging from the red of clay, to the blue of hard court. From his vantage point, the people on the far courts the size of dolls, their screams and whoops of laughter dancing on the air, hitting his ears even through the now rapidly warming cocoon of his car. 

_You should probably step out,_ Dele told himself, absently wiping at his brow with the back of his hand. _Probably walk around and see what will be your home for the next four weeks._ Four weeks, he repeated to himself, because it sounded a lot less than a month. 

Dele didn’t move. Only for the thought to come back, and it was in Nora’s voice this time, him remembering the conversation they had back in London a week ago.

“Couldn’t you have had --- a tape of you dancing in a teddy bear suit at a picnic with furries beneath the trees where nobody sees?” Nora asked in greeting, after they exchanged kisses continental style. 

“Sorry to disappoint?” Dele sat down, nodding his thanks at the waiter, as he reached for the menu, wondering if asking for Porterhouse steak might be a bit too much. 

“You could always cry personal business and move on. For you to punch Woodrow like that was stupid,” Nora started, ready to scold, but backed down at the militant light in Dele’s eyes. They had known each other long enough be aware of which buttons were worth pushing - and the others when pushed, caused the other to go nuclear. 

“Let’s order,” she quickly changed tack. “ I’m famished.”

“Take some time out, leave London,” Nora advised later over drinks. For her, a dirty martini -and for him - soft drink because he was driving, and daren’t push his luck. 

Not now. 

She’d sweetly requested lunch at Oblix, a restaurant slotted in on the thirty second floor near top of The Shard. They shared a rotisserie chicken with salad and chips as sides, with accompanying panoramic views of London. Helpful if you lost your appetite and just wanted to look out the wraparound windows to see the city of London from the lazy meandering Thames to various landmarks for up to forty miles. The London eye, Tower Bridge... Big Ben and beyond.  
Even with the drift of fog, the view still impressive. To accompany all this, people around them ate and murmured their observations in blessed silence as if they were in a confessional. 

“It worked for Kate Moss.”

“Kate. Moss.” 

“Dele,” Nora rolled her eyes, but knowing that Dele only knew what he needed to know, didn’t waste her breath with a lecture. She took a sip of her drink, her cheeks flushed with colour, the wiry deep red heavy waves of her hair escaping from its loose bun. “Right,” she continued, “This is gossip history. Long before you...” she broke off, sipping at her martini again. “Became sentient, there was this supermodel called Kate Moss, and she had a -- well--- it doesn’t matter what now. The point is, she was allegedly caught snorting coke off the surface of a toilet seat. The fallout was mad, she lost lucrative contacts in the wake of it--” the look Nora shot at him telling. 

“The point is, she hauled arse out of London, laid low for a minute. Didn’t explain, didn’t complain ---” she stopped, smiled again, her snaggle toothed grin catching the light. “A lot like yourself, actually. But... she got out of London, stayed in New York, waited until it blew over. Never gave interviews. Laid low for _ages_ and when she came back, it was a _triumph_.”

“I can’t go to New York,” Dele dismissed that with a grumpy mumble before lifting a bottle of beer to his lips. “My work is here.”

“Just as well,” Nora rolled her shoulders. “Live on the continent for a while. The English press are xenophobic, and hate going where others don’t speak English.”  
“There’s Spain.”

“No,” Nora dismissed that point with a wave, her chunky rings gleaming in the dim light of the bar. “You’d start off with the best intentions, living in Logrono, only to wake up in Ibiza the next day. You’d hook up with Vorm and Trippier, and wonder why your escapades are in the English papers. I’d offer you a room at mine but ...you hate my cat.”

“No offense.”

“None taken,” Nora rolled her shoulders under the fine gauged ink coloured knit jumper she wore. The dark red a stark contrast against her pale, freckled skin. “Eloise is a little shit, but I’m hers. Portugal?”

A beat. Dele’s brows rushing together into a frown, his eyes narrowing so much that he glared at Nora through the curtain of his eyelashes. “No.”

“Dele.”  
“ _No_ ,” he repeated, sterner this time, keeping his voice low even though their part of the restaurant was deserted. “I’d rather go to New York.”

“That isn’t going to happen.”

A blink, and Dele back in the room. 

Correction. 

Back in his vehicle, the lingering coolness leached away by the onslaught of heat, the air becoming stale and heavy. On a huff, he hooked his finger on the top handle of his backpack, and dragged it across the passenger seat, grumbling when the straps caught on the gear stick. Grabbing his phone from the holder on the dashboard, he threw it in the front pocket of his bag. You never got far if you stayed in the same place- his life had proven that.  
But. 

Dele eyed the dogs still half sprawling on their backs in the heat. 

He’d assume that they were friendly, they wouldn’t have been allowed to roam without leashes otherwise. 

One last huff, and he pushed the door of his vehicle open, wincing at the slight creak as the door swung from its hinge. The black dog the first to respond as it turned itself over, plopping on its stomach, ears pricking up at the new development. Joined by the second who did one better, quickly scrambling to his feet. 

Decision made, Dele hopped out, backpack hanging off his shoulder, and as if to underscore his action, he slammed the driver’s door shut. 

A loud _woof_ greeted this as both dogs bounded towards him, the air alive with barking as they circled and jumped, pawing at his legs. 

“Hey...boys. Or girls?” Dele greeted, before a thought struck him. “Wait, you might not even understand English,” he stretched out his hand, laughing at a friendly swipe of tongue against his palm from the yellow lab. “Let me try again. _Olá, como vai--_ \-- my Portuguese is crap, sorry,” he said, stroking at the lab’s head, only for said lab to roll over on his back, on the grass, his stomach and throat exposed. Absolutely charmed, Dele dropped to his knees, just to get closer. 

“Ahh, you’re one of _those_ , eh?” Dele grinned, stroking along its tummy with splayed fingers, feeling the smooth whorls and swirls of fur under fingertips, his mouth curving into a smirk at the dog’s contented whine. “You’re a good --- _boy_ ,” he realised. Only for the black dog to stick its boxy head between Dele’s palm and his companion’s tummy.  
“Both of you are _so_ great,” he laughed, his foul mood slipping away, not caring that his shirt clung to his back with sweat, the nape of his neck baking from the sun’s heat, his shades skewed off his face. All that mattered now was his arms full of dog. The gravel sharp enough to press into his kneecaps with the bite of teeth. But he didn’t mind, stroking along their spines, their tails wagging ceaselessly, their soft _woofs_ another soundtrack he could get used to. 

“What are your names?” he asked, not expecting an answer, as he felt around for a collar on the yellow lab’s neck. 

“Bowie. Ziggy.”

Dele’s hands stopped in mid stroke. 

At the sound of their names, Bowie and Ziggy scrambled to their feet once more, arrowing away from Dele, their paws skittering across the hard surface towards the source. Dele’s gaze following the dogs’ movements, both of them circling around weathered nike trainers, rearing on their hind legs, _jumping_ and squirming, their tails wagging with the pleasure of seeing their owner. 

“ _Acalme-se_ ,” Eric soothed, hands stroked the dogs’ heads. 

Dele grabbed his bag by its top loop, pushing himself from the ground and onto his feet, standing at a distance as he looked at Eric, all of his attention focused on his dogs. 

Years had passed since they last had seen each other, but Eric hadn’t changed much. His hair in a buzzcut - but more blonde due to the bleaching power of the sun than the sandy colour he had when he lived in England. His skin tan - another nod to the sun soaked environment- the laugh lines around his eyes deepened, the scruff on his face blonde. His features now soft with affection for his dogs. 

Not that Dele knew much Portuguese. Correction -actually he knew none at all - but knew enough Spanish to sort of follow the stream of nonsense Eric was saying to his dogs. Which was similar sweet nothings pet owners all over the world babbled at their pets all the time. Who’s a good boy? Why are you acting like this, you silly sausage? You didn’t chase any cars today -voice trailing off, before you peppered it with dramatic flair and a real fear - _and bring one home?_

Dele didn’t move, absorbing everything. Eric clad in the uniform of this place. White polo shirt with the markings of the name of the tennis school, and inky blue shorts. Took the time to note the changes - he still looked the same - but not. It had been a long time since they’d last seen each other, and it wasn’t until now- that Dele realised how long. 

He didn’t say a word, still didn’t budge, not until Eric looked up, his features smooth and polite. “Hello, Dele,” he straightened, his dogs not pawing at him anymore as they were now seated, their tails wagging and their tongues hanging out. “Did you have a good trip?”  
Ah, and that’s where they were, were they? Dele wasn’t overly arsed about it, he told himself. He knew how to play this game. 

“Yeah,” he said. “It was.”

***

Eric had been steeling himself for this moment for some time.

From the day he signed off on the documents for the money, two weeks ago, he’d tried on various scenarios of them meeting for the first time after everything. How to show his best face to Dele when really, he hadn’t worn his best face for some time now? He’d thought about taking the time away, assured by Nora that the fine print didn’t call for his presence-- just his premises. 

Hugo shot that thought down. They had tennis classes being bused in from the various hotels and inns nearby. The late summer early autumn boost before everyone returned to the colder countries of Germany, the Netherlands and Britain for school and work. All hands needed at the pump, as it were. Since it _was_ much desired money, going off to Lisbon and sulking at Nora’s flat was a no no. 

Also, why should _he_ be uncomfortable and put out by the fact that Dele was here? 

 

 _Sod that for a game of soldiers_ , like Nora would say when someone expressed a favour or a situation beyond the pale. 

Situation now sorted, Eric sat, and ran through various scenarios in his mind.  
Only to realise that he could only show up as himself, because he’d never been strong enough to be anyone else -- even back then. But, he couldn’t do it alone, and needed emotional support. 

So he had the dogs at his side all day, instead of them being in Caro’s agility training classes. Not that he’d ever admit it, but he’d needed their company, for something to do with his hands and and an excuse for distraction if - well. Bowie and Ziggy were always affectionate labradors, with cheerful dispositions that made it no hardship to have them around. It was hard work to be the casual and easy going host; his eyes felt as if they’d had sand kicked into them, because he’d been up at 05:00 am, getting cross eyed from looking at the accounts. His shoulders ached from stress and being hunched over the screen for too long.  
When not looking at the screen, he’d look at the wall. His eyes drifting to the skateboard with white wheels that lived on the shelf, and wondered. 

With a huff, he returned his gaze to the screen, eyes sore, the characters on the screen out of focus, and wondered if he finally needed reading glasses. 

Defeated, Eric could only bury his face in his hands when the deposit came into his account around midday, with an accompanying email from Harry Winks. 

_Eric,_ the email started, telling briskly of the amount deposited, and the approximate time of Dele’s arrival. He wished the email had been soulless with politesse, but even in the cold impersonal bytes of electronic correspondence, Winks’ missives still threw off warmth and affection. 

_If you can, teach Dele how to play tennis, will you?_

As if Dele had ever been interested. 

It took him longer to respond to the email than he wanted to admit, getting his head around everything to type out the few sentences that he sent back in reply. _Amount gratefully received, thank you. Dele and tennis... we’ll see._

Now six pm, and the first day of the next fourtee- twenty eight days, and after that... the money all his. Think about the mo--

“Bowie,” Eric tsked, as Bowie mouthed around his hand, the pressure of his jaws gentle, as if carrying waterfowl. “You know you shouldn’t do that,” he scolded, and Bowie’s inky head dipped at the scolding. Ugh, you couldn’t be mad at them when they acted and looked at you like that. Bowie’s eyes round and stricken by the censure, before he blinked imploringly. “Ahhh, Bowie,” Eric sighed, dropping on his haunches, all the better to ruffle the silk of his fur, resting his cheek against his dog’s head. Took a breath of dog -- no matter how Caro groomed them dogs still smelled like dogs--- before he straightened up, and looked at Dele. 

Dele had changed. 

The last time they’d actively spoken to each other, had been five years ago. They’d been in their early twenties then; Eric himself twenty five and exercising futile resistance into enforced retirement from his chosen sport, Dele a couple years younger, out there making a name for himself. Dele’s features always ripe with mischief then, and now still youthful. Physically he’d been skinny to the point of boyish gawk. Now, at twenty seven, he’d filled out a little bit. More lean than gawk, with easy movements that hinted at gym time and a passing involvement in some sort of sport. 

His rented vehicle - a bit more _rugged_ than his usual aesthetic- in the background behind him, the open road passing by them, the sea in the far distance. Dele’s eyes shielded by his beak billed cap, his eyeglasses hanging off the collar of his white shirt, his dark jeans streaked and coloured by the dust and gravel when he’d been playing with Ziggy and Bowie. 

_Traitors_ , he thought bitterly, seeing the dogs greet Dele as if he were an old friend; their backs on the ground, throats exposed because they loved being petted and stroked by whomever would give them the time of day.  
Needy little blighters.  
It was petty of him, wishing Dele would have been scared of the dogs for a minute. Or even been precious about being pawed on, because Dele’s tastes in clothes ran to expensive, and he could be fussy about such things. 

But no, Dele had dropped to his knees, immediately engaging with them both, and it had been _that laugh_ over the delighted barking that made him pause for a minute behind the glass doors. Dele’s backpack off in the near distance while he played and spoke with Eric’s dogs. Not scared when they mouthed at his hands, or swarmed around him, their tails wagging and their bodies squirming as they pushed to be nearer to him. 

Damn him for still having that ease about him. 

He finally exhaled and pushed at the glass door because Oliwia stood behind the reception desk, owlishly blinking at him in confusion. Her eyes round and questioning behind her glasses, because she must have wondered why Eric just... stood there. He stepped outside, feeling the push of intense heat against his face, spirits lifting as Ziggy and Bowie bounded to him, circling around and through his legs, and it was no hardship to lose himself into his dogs’ affection, to use their actions to steady himself, before finally lifting his face to Dele’s, at too long - but short- at last. 

“Hello, Dele,” Eric greeted, marvelling at the steadiness of his own voice, Ziggy’s yellow head bumping under his open palm, because he wanted to be patted. “Did you have a good trip?”

Dele raised an eyebrow, gave that smirk that Eric knew too well. “Yeah,” he said, his voice very distinct and him. Dele had the entirely underrated talent for coming across as enjoying every situation, he found himself in, even the unsavory ones. “It was.”

Just like that, Dele allowed the conversation to drop. Nothing about the sun, the heat, or any general observations Britons tended to have about the weather that acted as plaster to soothe over awkwardness. Damn him for making things difficult, even now.  
Eric took that step, the one he swore to himself that he’d never have to do, and he did it because he was an adult.  
“Okay,” he said, “would you like to be shown your room?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Oblix is an [actual restuarant in the Shard](https://www.the-shard.com/restaurants/oblix/). The menu is pricey, the attire is smart, and the food is lovely. This is why I have no money.


	4. Chapter 4

**Music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/iac0sn65zgc146w/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter3_music.mp3?dl=0) [26.7 MB, 00:55:19]  


**Non-music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/6bohtiq28ulatee/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter3_NoMusic.mp3?dl=0) [20.2 MB, 00:54:49]  


**Isle of Dogs, London; two weeks ago**

Dele sat across the desk, eyes on Ben Davies opposite. Ben didn’t say a word, his eyes scanning the documents in his hand, the print of the documents reflected on his reading glasses. 

Suppressing a sigh, rubbing at the nape of his neck with his hand, Dele turned to Winks with raised eyebrows. Winks seated in another chair near to his, resting his fingers against his temples, his elbow supported by and digging into the armrest.  
“So,” Ben said, putting the sheaf of papers down on the desk in front of him, blue-grey eyes calm to the point of bored. “You assaulted a fellow agent, and --- _in public_?”

“It’s not-- it’s more than that. You know it is,” Dele started, eyes sliding closed as he placed a palm over his face, his elbow pressing into his thighs. 

“It’s not how the tabloids have it,” Ben replied in his distinct, sing song Welsh accent, reaching for the stack of newspapers on his table. All over the back pages, the headlines screamed the headings, and wow. Dele jerked out of his slouch. Springing to his feet, he grabbed at _The Times_ and stalked towards the window, frowning at the headlines in the weak summer sun. This even reached the front of a broadsheet?

“You’d think-” Dele gritted out, his fingers tightening, the delicate newsprint rustling and ruching in his fingers. “That the broadsheets would have something better to report. What with everything else going on.”

“You’ve put yourself out there,” Ben replied, his fingers drumming against the surface of the table. “It doesn’t help that it’s at the parties of one of UEFA’s showpiece events --- and you escaped without a scratch.”

Now wasn’t the time to point out that he had skinned his knuckles, thank you very much. Nursed a bruise on his jaw, but Ben didn’t seem to be in the mood to appreciate it. 

“This should blow over quickly, right?” Winks asked, quiet until now. “Twenty four hours is a long time nowadays in the news cycle, we can probably wait it out. The word out that Dele is under stress and on holiday but...”

Dele lifted his head from the newspaper, folding it in such a way that the pictures were hidden from his view. As if they weren’t already online. Facebook, Twitter and YouTube already had it covered. The scrum at _that_ UEFA gala, him shielding his body in front of Shayton Pierce, a series of photos catching every action from the gleam in his eye to the extension of his fist and follow through as he punched Daniel Woodrow, a fellow agent. Witnesses around them, faces sheet white, features exaggerated from horror, ladies covering their mouths at the spectacle, men looking to shield their women from the violence. 

_Joe_ and _Paddy_ YouTube and Twitter accounts did one better, going from pictures to actual video, the phone camera jostling and shaking at the sight. “What did you say?” Dele’s voice loud and cutting through the noises and screams as people vanished, Woodrow sprawled on the ground, and Dele caught in motion of going for _more_ , only to be taken down by security, over scuffles and muffled screams. 

Ben removed his reading glasses from his face, folded them with the lenses facing outward, twirling them in his fingers. “UEFA wants to throw the book at you, Dele. It doesn’t help that you’re --- well. _You_. “ 

They’d known each other too long and too well for Dele to take offence. Ignoring Ben for a bit, he moved over to the window. Ben’s office a modest building in the Isle of Dogs - which wasn’t an island- in Greenwich. The view from the window not amounting to much, the eye hopping over the railings, and tired looking roofs of houses in front of Deptford Creek in the distance, a tributary leading into the Thames. Today the sun was out, the sky a tired, pale blue with grubby white clouds, the creek a muddy green. 

Turning away from the window, Dele faced his friends. 

Ben’s mouth now set in a thin line, which said something about the gravity of the situation he found himself in, because Ben’s life outlook generally tended to be positive. He was good people, an up and coming force in his own chosen field of crisis management. It helped having his knowledge to draw on, what with Ben knowing his way around sticky situations, and friendly with journalists, especially when it came to coverage of players in the age of social media. 

“What should I do, then?” Restless, and fidgety, Dele rolled the newspaper into a tube, his wrists twisting in opposite directions. “This isn’t going to be something I can post on my Instagram and hashtag _blessed._.” 

“Can you apologise?”

“ _No_ ,” Dele replied with a cutting emphasis. “After what he’s said about my players, the whispering campaigns going on against us? Especially for the longest time? Not a chance.”

Ben nodded, his eyes filled with understanding. “I thought so.”

“All right,” Winks interjected, twisting in his chair, using the universal term for time ou;, fingers of one hand pushing against the flattened palm of the other. “Dele isn’t going to apologise, nor should he, no way. But this can’t be allowed to go on.”

“It’s UEFA,” Ben sighed, rubbing at his temples. “They’re not going to back down, especially with Woodrow knowing the right people there. The amount of muckraking in the English press about you has been more _pointed_ than usual.”

“Fine,” Dele gritted out, leaning against the window sill. “Apologies are off the mark, and the English press are doing what they do best -”

“With help,” Winks sighed, now calling up his phone, thumbing at the screen. “Geez, Dele. ”

“Ben?”

“I’d rather you keep schtum for now,” Ben said at last, still seated in his chair. “Sometimes, you can get ahead of these things with an interview, but given the situation, with UEFA and the rest... I think you’re better off laying low, to be honest. Let the dust settle, let Woodrow spew, and --”

“Seriously?” 

“Yes.”

“I-- _shit_.”

“Is there anywhere you can just... disappear? Just until the story runs out of air. Preferably out of the country- but not too far?”

Winks and Dele shared a look.

***

Later, after stumbling out of Ben’s office and blinking in surprise at the late afternoon sunlight, Dele and Winks decided to drop by Winks’ flat and get some dinner. Winks lived nearby Ben’s office in Greenwich. The grand edifice of The Old Royal Naval college near enough for them to walk after they’d eaten. The time of year the days still long enough and mild enough to get out and about in relative comfort.

“So, the Algarve,” Winks said after a while, as they walked along the waterfront. In the background behind them, the elegant distinct lines of The Old Royal Naval college, with its flat, even lawns in its foreground. They tripped down the steps, stood on the floating balcony at the end, the Thames churning and thrashing with strong current.  
Over the noise of wind and waves, the _whrrr_ of the pleasure boats hit the ear, with the distant tinkle of people laughing and shouting at each other. On the other side of the river banks peppered with glass and concrete buildings, a contrast against the green of the trees and the turf on the river banks. Dele leant against the tops of the iron balcony with his elbows, his eyes staring at nothing in the distance. 

“No, what about Dubai?”

“Not even, Dele. It’s too far, and the optics a bit dodgy,” Winks slipped his phone from his pocket and thumbed at the screen. “And no-” Winks slid his glance from his phone to Dele, his eyes dark and shrewd as Dele turned his head to look at his friend. “No Tripps, no Vorm.”

“I wasn’t even thinki-”

“Dele,” Winks stopped, the wind tugging at his light jacket and the dark fringe of his hair. “You know you were. If we’re going to run with the story about you wanting a quiet time away from it all due to stress, Tripps and Vorm aren’t it.”

That, Dele had to admit, was true. Tripps and Vorm specialised in parties in the Balearic Islands, their motto: _the best time you’d never remember_. Highlights made for Instagram stories, live events streamed via YouTube which only served as effective advertising. Right now, they were winding down their activities in Ibiza before going on tour, and their end of season goodbye parties at their clubs of residence were over the top. 

For someone now on the wrong side of UEFA, and coming this close to a police charge if Woodrow decided to take things further, it wouldn’t do for Dele to be seen partying with Tripps, Vorm and others on the sliding scale of celebrity who fell into their orbit. He accepted the reasoning, but he didn’t have to like it. In addition... 

“I can’t stay at a hotel,” Dele turned around, back facing the river, attracted to the knot of tweens playing football in the distance on the greens of King’s College, his eyes following their play, their squeals and laughter colouring the air. “After a while you go--” he stopped. In a way, hotels just didn’t feel _real_. The too tidy rooms, the too staid outings with people that he didn’t know - not that hadn’t stopped him before, but-  
“After a while, you go crazy,” he finished. 

“So...” Winsky started, looking up from his phone. “Here’s an idea, again. What about Portugal?”

Dele didn’t answer immediately, watching the game in play in front of him. 

His eye drawn to the Sikh child in the group, one hand splayed holding his turban to his head as he dribbled a path through his friends, causing a few to stumble and fall in his wake. They had to be no more than nine, but he already knew how to use his body to shift, to deceive, to power through. The ball at his feet as if magnetised to it - and short of an out and out rugby tackle - both seemingly couldn’t be separated from each other. 

“Devi, you wanker!” A girl giggled, pushing the strands of her curly afro from her face, her face brighter than the mild sun, her eyes only on him . 

“Massive, mate,” that was another boy, as they high fived, before he gathered his friend in a one armed hug. 

“I’m hungry,” chimed another one, “let’s go to Nandos.”

A nudge at Dele’s shoulder, tipping him out of his thoughts, as Winks hissed, “No.”  
“I know,” Dele murmured, “but he has--”

“Dele,” Winks pressed, but he didn’t have to. The child would have already been in an academy, and he was far from signing a professional contract with anyone. Dele took the opportunity to find his voice, make it level. “Portugal?”

“Yeah,” Winks nodded, “Eric’s out there, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“We haven’t been there in a minute, and he’s always so busy with his business and such -” Winks continued, the pleasant, low tones of his voice on the edges of Dele’s consciousness. Dele watched as the children half ran, half walked in the direction of Cutty Sark, its mast in the distance. The children playfully shoving each other, with the requisite _Oi!_ and -

“Come again?”

“Supposedly, Eric needs a bit of money to keep things ticking over. Like a short term loan? We’d have to pay money for you to be bundled up in a hotel from everyone anyway. It would kill two birds with one stone, helping a friend and having you squirreled away somewhere away from --”

“And where did you hear this?” Dele asked, finally turning away from the tweens and back to facing Winks, his dusting of freckles stark against the typical pallor of his skin.  
“Nora. You know how close they are.”

Dele knew. 

“Besides, we talk from time to time.”

 _That_ , Dele also knew. 

“Also, the Algarve ticks all the boxes. Under three hours to Faro, and you’ll at least know someone.” Winks continued to chirp happily. “Even Ben can’t give you grief for that, and -” he stopped, his eyes narrowing. “You and Eric are okay _now_ , right?”

“Erm--”

“I’m not hearing that,” Winks pressed on, as he stopped in mid stride, turned to Dele. Winks wasn’t necessarily one to throw his weight around, but when it came to matters like this, with people putting aside their differences for peace, he was as unyielding to group disharmony as a head of a boy scout troop. “We can manage without you for a few weeks. Joshy and Marcus want to step up. Now they’ll get the chance to either impress or... not.”

“I-” Dele started, knowing it was no use, because Winks had already built up a head of steam, and got moving. Once he clicked into that mode, he was as unstoppable as a charging rhino. 

“I’ll sort out the arrangements,” Winks started, pulling out his phone. He tapped out information at the screen, his thumbs a blur of movement. Lifting his eyebrows, he shot Dele a sharp look. “Just call Eric, and work out whatever between you before you land, yeah?”

Now wasn’t the time to tell him that Eric and himself hadn’t spoken to each other since--- Winks would find out soon enough.

“Yeah,” Dele said, “of course.”

***

“You do have options,” Hugo pointed out, using his fork as a baton to register the beat of his words. Late on in the evening, having a meal at The Blue Hole, one of the quieter, non tourist restaurants in Old Town. They served some of the better local food around, done for the tastes of the Portuguese: Dorada served with local vegetables and a regional hot sauce, handmade by the proprietor herself. The night clear, the heat turned down from hellishly hot to mildly uncomfortable, them sitting on the patio far enough from the seaside to be classified as _seaside_ , but having enough tarmac not to get sand on their shoes. The white noise of the sea outside mirrored the restlessness Eric felt within.

His mind replaying the memories of the day, which it tended to do when he sat down, had a minute to just _relax_.

Normally, at the end of the day, he’d do a mental walk through of things he’d done in the time, from set up to opening, to closing. Observations of note tapped in on his smart phone about the services offered, how his clients responded, noted the state of the courts, and which repairs needed to be made. Not today, not with his mind looping images in front of his eyes. It was like... an ear worm but with images. Dele hopping out of a rental vehicle which would have been called serviceable -

Dele, who still looked like himself, tawny skinned, dark eyed with sharp, foxy features. 

Different, somehow, his eyes sharper, his gaze bolder than it had been when they’d first gotten to know each other - and Dele had always been a bold one. Going out of his way to reach out to Eric with the charm offensive of being his agent - only for them to - and he wasn’t going to go there. His mind though, had other ideas, calling up his hands as he stroked and petted Bowie and Ziggy, noting the wattage of his grin as the dogs pawed and happy whined at Dele, because their lot in life was to be adored, and they honed in on people who understood their brief and acted accordingly. 

“Hotel Mar wishes to buy your business from you. You have the option of selling up and moving on.” Hugo said in soft tones. He had the quiet, dignified bearing of a local parish priest, did Hugo. His voice smooth and cultured, in part but not wholly due to his natural French accent, but also just his general demeanor. He ate his meal of fish and vegetables, a dish similar to Eric’s. Even though they’d opted out of high level professional tennis all those years ago, they still tried to eat like top level sports men. 

Hugo even going as so far as to cut out gluten from his diet -a step too far for Eric- eyeing his own bread with gratitude, because there was nothing else to gather up the sauces and oils that came with any fish dish. Only for Hugo’s comment to hit him, and he reached for his wine, his appetite now diminished. 

“Go where? And do what?” he groused, dismissing it out of hand. “This is all that I’ve ever wanted to do. All I know.”

Hugo finished chewing and swallowed, “As if you’ve ever had the chance to do anything else.”

Eric poked at his meal with the tongs of his fork. “We’re not talking about that.”

“We won’t,” Hugo moved on, agreeably, and Eric didn’t know whether to be appeased by the easy acquiescence or annoyed at the fact that Hugo didn’t needle him a bit more. “But Dele, hmmm?”

Ahh, and that was the reason for him letting the subject of tennis go. “Hugo--”

“You’ve never told me much about Dele,” Hugo pushed on. “Even when you two were close, and he was present, you made sure he was very... separate from your work.”

“Hugo,” Eric dropped his fork, briefly pressed his hands against his eyes, muttering Portuguese curses under his breath. 

“If he’s going to be around for the next month, I should know a bit of what I’m getting into, _non_? So I know which uh... _mine_ to avoid.”

When he said it like that... “Just, treat him like any other guest,” Eric directed. “I know I will.”

 _Why do you keep lying to yourself, Eric?_ he scolded himself. 

Only to defend himself, _I’m not, not really. It’s not as if our meeting was auspicious or anything, FFS_.

**Five years ago**

**Chiswick, London**

Grimacing at the throb of pain in his hand, his mood darkening when he realised he’d left his painkillers back in his hotel room, Eric checked his watch on his uninjured wrist, marking off the time to leave. The rooms already humming and _heaving_ with people in this part of the world. Eric brushed against bodies, making his excuses, inching towards the postage stamp of a garden towards the back of the house, drawing his injured wrist and holding it against his chest, not wanting it to be jarred as he slipped through the crush of bodies.

That’s how Nora liked it. 

As a hostess she thrived on noise and people, and there she was in the thick of it, brick red corkscrew curls escaping the braid that she’d tried to do. Clad in an inky slip dress that showed off her pale limbs. Half Korean, half Irish and totally freckled, she’d never tan. Her eyes lit with merriment and half of whatever was in her wine glass, as she fluttered her lashes and grinned at -- he hadn’t even gotten the guy’s name. Tall, dark and striking, with a shock of blonde hair against his rich, dark skin, diamonds the size of robin’s eggs in his ears, they’d been giving each other meaningful looks all night. 

A prelude to a --- whatever the name of this next heartbreak was.  
Nora one to fall fast and hard, only to get knocked back. She’d curl under her duvet, bury her head under her pillow and swear to him over Facetime: _This is the last time, Eric. I promise you. Celibacy. It’s the way forward_. 

Only to fall fast and hard again. 

Rolling his eyes, because he knew the end to that story, he stopped at the mini bar. 

Nora, being Nora, hired a bartender to --- man the tiniest bar in Christendom.  
Essentially her liquor cabinet on the old fashioned bar cart. Two rounded discs, top and base, crowded with the finest spirits around. To the left of the bar cart , soft drinks and wine floating in oversized ice buckets, and the rest of the bartender’s tools tucked away behind the narrow waist bar stand --- which might have been a model from Ikea he didn’t know the name of. 

“Good evening,” the bartender greeted politely, a flash of white against dark skin, and if Eric hadn’t known that Nora would have demanded to see her age before hire, the bar keep looked all of sixteen, her braids in a loose top knot, slender frame clad in a simple black shirt, name tag of _Lauren_ pinned high on her chest. “What can I get you?”

 _A new wrist_ , he wanted to say, but settled on, “Orangina, if you have it.”

Yeah, Lauren was someone who’d been around - and much older than sixteen. Her eyes fell on the bulky wrap around his wrist, and with an effort he felt from his side of the counter, she didn’t ask after his injury.  
“Orangina,” she said, handing over the bottle to him, cold and slick from its ice bath. “When you’re finished with the bottle, there are recycle bins outside, if you could...?”  
“Sure.”  
Finally, he’d stumbled out into the garden, the breeze chilled, even in the height of English summer. One of many ways England was so different from Portugal. 

Summer days in England long, its evenings flushed with oranges and fuschia edging towards purple, as twilight stole in. He looked upward, trying to find any stars that dared to sneak out this early, but London was too bright, too polluted with light to see such delights. In addition, Nora had recessed lights in her garden, enough for the guests not to slip and fall into a mini sandpit that she truly needed to do something with, because it was too small for a barbeque. 

Morosely sipping at his drink, Eric thought about his last outing at any centre court, and how that ended sooner than he’d have liked. Garros, playing against Heung Min Son, a South Korean player ranked number fifteen and rising on court 1 (which could have been Court Chatrier because it meant so much). Eric there as a wild card draw, beset by nerves. Although he’d been on the circuit for a minute, spending his time mostly on hard courts, Roland Garros was _a coup_. The glamour, the red clay, elegant faces hidden behind oversized dark glasses, the quintessential _Frenchness_ of it.  
Already a set down, and halfway through this one, mentally, swapping and changing his strategy. Over extended, lost his balance and fell on his wrist.  
The pain - a hot, jagged bomb of a thing ripping through his arm. On a gasp of agony, he drew his wrist against his body, curled into a ball. Eyes closed tight willing for it to go away.  
Heard the encouraging claps and cheers from the sidelines, Hugo’s voice cajoling _Get up_. Eric closed his eyes against the pain and the summer sun, shaking his head at the questions the physio peppered him with. 

_On a scale of one to ten ---_

_Do you think you can --_

_No,_ Eric shook his head, vision blurring from the tears of distress, unable to speak through his clenched teeth. _I can’t, I can’t_

Eric stretched out his hand and looked at it. Clad in an oversized wrist brace for a fracture. Mentally tallied the time for healing, physio and rehab. He’d have to sit out the rest of the season. Oh bother at the bloody uselessness of it all, and him.

 _At least you got to be on court 1_? 

Only to be off in the space of thirty minutes because he tripped over his own feet like a novice and _fu--_.  
“Yeah, I--” a voice cut through his thoughts. 

Annoyed and feeling sorry for himself, Eric spun around, ready with a haughty _do you mind?_ to jump off his tongue, only to come face to face with a guy holding a phone at his ear. A couple years younger than himself, Eric would have hazarded a guess. 

Mixed race, skin tawny coloured, dark hair and eyes, eyebrows arched in surprise. 

“Ahh,” the guy said, raising his index finger for silence. Eric frowned, not wanting to be rude, but -- 

“Hey, Winks, let me call you back, okay?” he started, mouth drawn into a smirk. “I’m about to sit down for dinner, and --- okay, safe.”

Eric slipped one hand in his pocket, the other still holding his drink. The guy in front of him slipped his sleek mobile phone in the pocket of his jeans - which looked like they lost a fight with a pitbull- paired with an embroidered white t-shirt and a navy blazer. Not that Eric was much of a clothes horse himself, but even to him, that seemed like it shouldn’t work, but ... did. 

“Sorry,” the guy said, “I didn’t realise that anyone else was out here. All the world’s inside and ---”  
That was a good way to put it, people now dancing to the music piping out into the garden. That iconic tune of _Liquidator_ by Harry J All Stars, a chilled rocksteady theme that made people bop and sway to the beat, moving people to snap their fingers in time instead of throwing their bodies about. Too bad people only associated the iconic tune with two football clubs, West Bromwich and Chelsea. 

“I needed to get away from a bit,” he finished. 

“It’s fine,” Eric said, holding up his bottle of juice. “I was just having a drink before I returned to my hotel.”

“Ah. You aren’t from around here, then?”

Eric shook his head. “No, not really. Left England when I was really young and ... I visit from time to time. And you? Are you from around here?”

“Not from London, no.”

No, Eric agreed. Still, if you went by his accent, you knew he’d grown up near enough to the M25 for his voice to be more Southern than not. 

“Ah, okay.”

“I’m Dele,” he said, reaching out to shake Eric’s hand, and Eric hesitated. Not wanting to put his drink in his injured hand because it hurt when he grabbed for things. But -- 

“Ah,” Dele nodded when the beat of silence went on too long, his dark eyebrows raised in annoyed confusion, but polite enough to let the moment pass. “Sorry for interrupting,” he continued, taking a step back, subtly angling his body as he made to go. “I’ll leave you to it-”

“I’m Eric. Eric Dier,” Eric said, because he didn’t need to be rude, especially not at Nora’s party, because she generally entertained relatively likeable people. He stepped forward, arm outstretched, ready to close the distance. Dele grinned, reaching his arm out for a handshake, only for him to stop, his eyes focused on Eric’s injured wrist. 

“Hey,” he frowned, interest overriding politeness. “What happened to your hand?”

Heavily strapped, with enough bandages and buckles bordering on fetish, the dark blue fabric striking against his white dress shirt. 

“Job hazard.”

“Martial arts instructor?”

“Hardly,” Eric shook his head. “It’s --- well, I came over for a tournament.”

“Yeah?”

“Fell on my wrist.”

“Ah, skateboarding?”

Eric knew he’d never see this guy again, so he went along with it. “Yeah,” he agreed, “skateboarding.”

***

“This is...” Dele started, stopped.

“What you wanted, right?” Eric’s voice brisk. “A room with a view, as it were. Wifi and all the amenities.”

The room decent enough. Compared to the hotel rooms you could get for the money Winks had transferred into Eric’s account, this room was a joke. 

But, it was clean. Had a bed tucked against the wall the colour of pale ochre, a table in the corner with a bottle of water and a glass; an ensuite bathroom with the basic amenities. Plus views overlooking the tennis courts and into the far distance, the sea. Dele stepped forward, dropped his bag on the chair, slipped his hands in his pockets. 

“It’s not the Dorchester,” Eric began, and Dele bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from responding, although he wanted to, because he remembered the joke. “We aren’t a hotel. We do have limited accomodation for tennis players who come here for individual coaching. Meal plans are arranged in advance.”

“That’s fine,” Dele walked across the wooden floor, and stopped by the glass door, stupidly pleased at the fact that it opened up to a balcony. You had the view of the tennis courts, and beyond. The evergreen of palms and flora against the blue of sky and the ocean glimmering in the distance like a sequined ribbon. 

“We’re not too far from the town, and there’s the usual suspects there, like a Carrefleur, and restaura--”  
“That’s fine.”

“Okay,” Eric said, then sighed, his fingers tightening on the door knob. “I don’t know if this is going to be enough,” he started. “This part of the world might be a bit too sleepy for you.”

“We’ll see.”

Eric rolled his eyes at this, the play between gracious host and polite guest be damned. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, and he did. Dele standing in the room alone, wondering what they both had let themselves in for.

***

After Eric clicked the door shut, Dele sat down at the small table, sliding his laptop out of his backpack, setting it on its wooden, scarred surface.  
As the computer hummed and whispered to itself through its start up protocols, Dele tapped his fingers against the age smoothed surface of the table.  
He thought about calling Winks, but... they had said enough to each other for a while. When the computer completely switched on, he opened Skype. Saw the green dot against a name - someone who he actually wanted to speak to- and pressed the green icon. Heard the cheery music signalling connection protocols only for it to be cut with a cheery greeting.

“Dele!”

“Harry,” Dele greeted, his chin resting on his elbow on the table as soon as the picture flicked on his computer screen. 

Harry raked his fingers through his blonde hair, angling his head this way and that - like a sort of preening. A side effect of doing a lot of shampoo adverts, Dele would tease. Not that Harry cared. 

Harry indoors back in England, his form kitted out in a deep blue jumper, flickering images on the TV behind him. Dele himself in a room three hours away, and in shirt sleeves- in September. 

“Settled in already?”

“I’m in the Algarve, it’s not far.”

“Bored already?” 

“No,” Dele shifted a bit, but not moving from his position by the table. “That’s---” his voice trailed off, as he thought about the past few hours. Eventually, he finished with, “Not the word I’d use, no.”

“You haven’t been to Portugal in a while,” Harry observed in his easy, friendly way. Although Harry and himself had a client- agent relationship, they’d gotten pretty close over the years as Harry’s talent had blossomed. To the world, he came off as straight edged, boring to the point of being considered a dullard, but that was selling him way short.  
Harry sensitive to the currents of things around him when he wanted to be, skilled and hard headed enough to close them out when he didn’t. 

“No,” Dele kept his voice neutral. “I haven’t.”

“You can’t just go wherever Tripps, Vorm and their foam parties are,” Harry teased. “So probably this might be good for you? You do deserve a break, with your burn out.”  
_Bu- burn out?_ Dele jerked back from the screen and table as if scalded, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. You gave Winks an inch and he took the whole mile.

“Bu---? Listen, about that--”

“You don’t have to explain,” Harry sent a sympathetic smile, and Dele just - took it. He’d catch up with Winks and give him an earful later. Besides, Harry needed to focus on his own form. 

“I have to go now, yeah?” Dele held up his hand, gave a short wave. Used the old chestnut. “I think we’ll be having dinner shortly.” 

Harry smiled and waved back before signing off, leaving Dele not necessarily fuming, but not at peace with this situation either. 

_What the hell was Winks playing at?_ he thought, tapping at the edge of the laptop’s unibody just off centre from the trackpad with the pads of his fingers. The galling thing was, Dele knew, him losing his cool with Woodrow had thrown him into a situation of his own doing. Right now, the aftercare/ rehab period he was a part of was client advice 101. Winks, Nora _and_ Ben were each right in their own way: never explain, never complain. Keep your head down until it blew over, because there would always be another scandal to replace yours. 

Let the work speak, and you stay schtumm. 

“Also,” Winks said when he’d dropped him off in the carpark at Luton airport, not looking at him, but through the windshield over the tops of the cars to the airport buildings in the distance; planes descending and ascending in the skies like coordinated notes on a scale. 

“You need a holiday, anyway. So take one.”

“But-- the Algarve.”

“There are worse places to holiday,” Winks pressed the locking mechanism on his side of his SUV, the heavy _ba dunk_ underscoring his point as the doors unlocked.  
“I’m sure,” Harry shot Dele a warm look as he leaned over to push open his door, “you can find something out there to do.”

***

Normally, Eric didn’t brood.

In trying times - and he’d had a few- he understood the maxim of life being something to bear and endure at turns, and he’d done well for himself so far. To guard against woolgathering, he got to work: called up his emails, eyed bookings, did calculations in terms of bodies to tennis courts. Minimized that screen, opened up his spreadsheets and worked through them until he felt cross eyed.

“Four weeks,” he whispered to himself. How the hell was he going to manage with Dele being around for four weeks, without wanting to at least give him a good, sharp elbow in the stomach? What in the entire fuck had he been thinking in saying yes? 

His computer now in sleep mode, images floating across the screen. The cliffs and beaches of Lagos, and oh yeah, he hadn’t surfed in a while. Image bleeding from cliffs and beaches, morphing into the go kart track at the Kartodromo. Eric leaned back in his office chair, making himself heavy, the chair creaking as it adjusted to its new position, he pushed at the floor with the tips of his toes, the chair swinging from left to right. 

His office boxy but not too small. One wall, an oversized map of the Algarve, coloured pins highlighting his favourite places. The wall in front of him, a skateboard that he had yet to get rid, as well as pictures of various family and friends in his favourite places.  
The doorway, and when you turned two hundred and seventy degrees this was the money shot: floor to ceiling glass, that brought the outside in. The tennis courts in the foreground, now in use, hosting a mixed doubles pairing, the ball fizzing along the length of the court, lengthways and diagonally. 

He heard the screams and laughter of the quartet as they encouraged and insulted each other in Dutch. The light of the setting sun touching on their skin dewed with sweat, making them _glow_. Eric remembered they were staying at the hotel nearby, and booked out the hire of the courts at this time until the end of the month. With not a little envy, he admired the ease and athleticism of their bodies, their ability to chase down balls without letting up. The fluency of movement in follow through, not having to worry if their bodies would betray them in the midst of the game. 

At that thought, he absently rubbed at his knee. 

When they threw their heads back and laughed, exchanging handshakes at the net, Eric frowned. Afterwards, when one of the men grabbed his partner and swung her around, her face tucked in the side of his neck, her feet kicking the air, he looked away. 

A soft knock on the door, and he called out, “Come in,” knowing who would be on the other side. Hugo, popping in to say goodbye, as he always did at this time. Six p.m. when the sun’s glare mellowed out a bit, but the heat didn’t let up until sunset. 

“He’s arrived then,” Hugo said in greeting, as soon as he closed the door behind him, leaning against its sturdiness. 

“Yeah,” Eric answered, not even bothering to side step anything. Himself a study in... nonchalance, he hoped, his fingers linked on his lap, his features blank. “Just three weeks, six days and twenty two hours,” he half laughed. “Not that I’m counting.”

“Will you be okay? If you want, I can ask around, get him a tour guide and take him off your --- hands? If you need.”

“I’m fine. To be fair,” Eric admitted, breaking his pose to scratch at his beard. “With the amount of money he’s paying -- if he wants me to sit and stare at him for the rest of the three weeks, six days and twenty two hours --”

“Not that you’re counting.”

“Yes, well. For the amount of money he’s paying, if he wanted me to sit and stare at him for all that time, I probably should.”

“Eric,” Hugo breathed, his voice rich with sympathy, and he hadn’t heard it like that since the Time of Everything All At Once, all those years ago. 

“Go home, I’ll be fine,” Eric lifted the corners of his mouth, and hoped that it came off as an encouraging smile. “Our work starts in the morning, _mon ami_ ,” he said in the worst French accent ever. “Go home, kiss your wife and your girls. Tell them I send my love.”

“Night, Eric. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

***

The memories held off.

They held off when Eric went back to work, answered letters from his family stationed all over the globe. His heart singing at the attached pictures in emails, and texting, _Yes, I’ll see you in California, sometime soon_ to his younger brother. Envied his sister’s gap year as she travelled through Asia, curating her adventures via Instagram with pictures of local street food. They held off as he got to his feet, walked along the tennis courts now closed for the evening, twilight stealing in. He checked the mesh fences for holes, to see if they needed to be mended. Had a clipboard to hand, with his phone, mostly to take pictures as references. Loitered around the patio area, seeing it through the eyes of a visitor arriving for the first time. Scoping out fault areas relating to client safety or tidiness. 

Table tops wiped clean, wicker chairs of three to a table.  
The tables were too small for four, and two chairs per table came across as being too intimate. Due to their relative closeness to Hotel Mar, guests who rocked up didn’t expect to be served anything other than the odd snack and cold drinks. The warm Southern Portuguese climate helped in terms of keeping the menu light and options limited. At the end of a tennis session people demanded water, and nothing but water. Probably a bit of pastry or fruit drinks before they returned to their hotel, or moved on to somewhere else. 

Walked through the ‘club house’ as this part of the tennis building was called. Just a flat plan layout of the reception area, the small kitchen in the back. His office tucked in off the side, where he was able to give an eye to the day to day proceedings. To the right, small, cool offices for their physio/massage therapist to work his magic twice a week.  
They had very limited rooms for board. Mostly for up and coming tennis players, or those coming off injury. Those were upstairs; a bit modest, with the basic amenities of en suite bathrooms , a/c and wifi. The boarding aspect not something that Eric wanted to encourage but it helped having spare rooms for family and- for the moment - the estranged. His eyes closing with relief when he saw the lights to Dele’s room off, and realising his vehicle wasn’t here. 

He held the memories even when he did his toilet, and crawled under light sheets, the chunky a/c rattling in the corner of the room, his hand absently rubbing at his knee, feeling the stiffness there, and realising that he hadn’t done his stretches before coming to bed. Too tired to crawl out of bed, he stayed there, his eyes fixed to the ceiling above him, memories playing in front of his eyes like a movie at IMAX. Too tired to fight, too wound up to sleep, he allowed himself to remember. 

**Five years ago**

They fell into each other.  
Eric didn’t know how they arrived here; in clear, blue water, unmoored from everything.  
New Year’s in London, they were a part of the press of the crowds along the Victoria Embankment. Half an hour towards the New Year rolling in, the soundtrack to the winding down of the old year -- some eighties music, heavy on the beat and the synth. This crowd, screaming and mouthing to the songs around them and Eric, his eyes never leaving Dele’s face, stunned and surprised at how they arrived here from inauspicious beginnings. 

Shortly after receiving Dele’s odd present, he’d gotten Dele’s number from Nora.  
Back in Portugal and on a break between rehab sessions, he sent Dele a message, thanking him for the wheels, ending with a terse, _I don’t need an agent_.  
_Rumbled,_ came the reply within a minute, along with a squinting face with tongue emoji. _Can’t blame a bloke for trying._  
Eric worried his lower lip with his teeth, briefly glancing up, glad to see Hugo being otherwise engaged on the tennis court, and not glancing in his direction. He could have left it there, but... _I’m keeping the wheels._  
_Fine, I have no use for them anyway. When next you’re in London, knock me up for a coffee._  
In retrospect, that’s how Dele drew him in. You couldn’t withstand the equal parts of self confidence to the point of arrogance and charm.

Six months later, and he was still here.  
Here, specifically being on the embankment of the Thames for New Year’s.  
In a nod to the dress code, they’d both turned out relatively smart, champagne flutes in hand, because it wasn’t long now.  
“Gather round, glasses to hand,” the deejay directed, his accent very much North American. “Grab the nearest person to you and make a memory.”  
The countdown started, _Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.--_ they choroused with the rest of the crowd. _Three. Two. One. HAPPY NEW YEAR!_

Eric upended his champagne glass, swallowing the fizzing liquid in one breath, the skies exploding around him. The cityscape of London silhouetted against the fizzing, curling, explosions of fireworks in colours of red, blue, green, white and orange. The sonorous chime of Big Ben ringing in the New Year with enough noise to chase away evil spirits.  
Hands around each other’s shoulders, they sang _Auld Lang Syne_. Around them, everyone hugging and kissing each other, seeing off another year, and turning their faces to the new. 

That night, reality shimmered and softened like dreams.

The parties now broken up, themselves swept along the current of the mob on Westminster Bridge. The odd drunken skirmishes at the edges broken up by police in hi-vis vests, the skies around them hazy with smoke from fireworks. People rushing around themlike water; impersonal yet irresistible as they flowed with the crowd. 

Big Ben looming large, a solid black hulking shadow against the light and spark of more fireworks. They cut along Curzon Street, past St James’ Park; in the mixture of smoke and New Year’s fog, the street lights like floating orbs in the mist. Eric tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat, because of the chill.  
“So cold, “ Eric complained.  
“Someone’s lived in Portugal too long,” Dele teased, throwing an arm around Eric’s shoulders. Eric turned towards him, face resting in the hinge between Dele’s chin and shoulder. Close enough to feel than hear him say, “Chin up, we’ll be in warmth soon.”

Forty minutes later, coats shucked and shoes toed off at the door, stumbling and tumbling across the oversized bed in their luxury hotel. The bed underneath them as comfortable as anything that he could wish for. Drowsy to the point of half dreams, Eric idly thought that this was what clouds should feel like; fluffy and light as if supported by air. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Dele half laughed, “I can only afford one room, for one night.” He looked up at the ceiling, and Eric at him. 

“You didn’t have to -- mmm,” Eric began, closing his eyes briefly as his cheek pressed against the plush, sumptuous texture of the bedsheet. He could get used to luxury such as this. 

“I wanted to,” Dele’s mouth curved into a smirk. “The aim is to be in a position where if I wanted to, I can do this _everyday_ , instead of one night, maxing out my credit card. So let me see what I’m letting myself in for. I know I’m gonna need a defibrillator once I see the bill.”

“I’ll make sure I have one standing by.”

Dele made a loose fist with his fingers, and lightly tapped the area over his heart. “Medic.”

Eric didn’t move, feeling too comfortable and sleepy to do so. The decor of the room designed to be soothing in its opulence. Curtains open out to the heaving city in the night, sporadic fireworks lighting up various parts of The City, throwing buildings into stark silhouette against the backdrop of colours in green, red and blue. The walls within their own room covered in warm, lustrous butter gold wallpaper, a backdrop to discreet watercolours of various parts of London dotted here and there. 

Apart from their bed, their suite had oversized plush, comfortable chairs designed for curling up in to either read, or doze. Light blankets artfully folded and placed on the chairs like oversized napkins, to be unfolded and wrapped around one’s form to ward off the chill.  
“Because there’s only one bed, I’ll take the --”  
“It’s a king sized bed, we can easily share. I think,” Eric moved his arms up and down, kicked his legs from side to side. “We could do snow angels if we had a mind to.”  
“True,” Dele agreed, but still shifted as if to move. “But-”  
“No,” Eric whispered, reaching out to touch Dele’s arm, the motion causing Dele to swing his gaze from looking at the ceiling to him. Emboldened by Dele’s dark eyed steady gaze, Eric moved his fingers from his arm, to finally rest on his cheek.  
“Eric---”

 _In for a penny, in for a pound_ as his grandmother would say, and Eric narrowed the distance between them, their lips brushing against each other. Dele’s lashes dark curtains against his cheek, his eyes drifting closed. After the first brush, Dele’s mouth opening against his, the tart taste of champagne, the smoke of the peanuts they’d shared on the way here, and _him_. 

His fingers drifting to and tightening around Dele’s collar. Suddenly unsure in which direction to go, where to -- _touch_. Dele had no such hesitation, the chill of his fingers under Eric’s shirt, using his leverage to pin Eric to the bed, thighs on either side of Eric’s body, heat radiating off him like sun spots. Their gazes caught, and locked.  
A few beats of silence between them, before Eric reached up for Dele, slinging his arm around the nape of Dele’s neck, using the leverage to bump their lips together once more. 

Pleasure rolling through him like waves of water; deep, constant and all encompassing. Dele’s tongue sliding against his, his hands skimming from his waist to ribs, causing Eric to hiccough a laugh, only for it to be captured in another kiss. The thrill dizzying, his veins too small and narrow against the rush of blood to everywhere all at once.  
When they finally broke a breath apart, Dele stroked his cheek with the backs of his fingers.  
“Happy New Year,” he whispered. “I hope it’s a good one.”

Eric smiled, throwing an arm around Dele’s neck, unable to fight against _this_ , and not caring. “It’s already shaping up to be a good one,” he quipped, charmed by the flush staining Dele’s cheeks.

“You’re saying that because it’s the Dorchester, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” Eric laughed, his eyes not leaving Dele’s face. In a lot of ways, it was like seeing him for the first time; the scar in his left eyebrow, his eyes wide and on him. Oh, Eric realised, he had to finish his thought. “It _is_... lush.”

“Just so we know.”

“Just so we know,” Eric repeated, before drawing Dele in for another prolonged snog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Cutty Sark [is an actual Clipper ship smack in the middle of Greenwich](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cutty_Sark)
>   * 'Isle of Dogs' - sounds like I LOVE Dogs. Say it five times fast! 
>   * Old Royal Naval College [is not as close to the river Thames. Great liberties were taken with geography. But it's near enough. ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Royal_Naval_College)
> [
>   * Chiswick is pronouced as 'Chiz-zik'
> ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Royal_Naval_College) 



	5. Chapter 5

**Music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/pnyuw08vyd7s7io/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter4_music.mp3?dl=0) [15.3 MB, 00:30:28]  


**Non-music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/l7l83zub2hvttqn/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter4_NoMusic.mp3?dl=0) [11.6 MB, 00:29:58]  


You didn’t know how ingrained a habit was until it got yanked away. 

Such as getting up at 05:00 am, and checking email for the first thirty minutes on his phone. Normally, Dele would stumble from the shower to the treadmill, start off his run on a gentle incline. The motions gently pulling him through the bleary line from barely conscious to wide awake- it’s morning- here are six incredible things to think about before breakfast. 

This -- wasn’t his room. 

The warmth of the room put paid to the first thoughts about being back in the UK, because here, the a/c had a timer that shut off during the night, and the warm breeze from outside rolled in like waves. 

Since he was here, and _technically_ on holiday, Dele thought, he might as well see the lay of the land. Slipping into shirt, shorts and trainers, he grabbed at his headphones and decided to forgo the gym and see what had kept Eric busy all these years. 

Due to the time, the little tuck shop had yet to open, and he didn’t feel for any of the offerings from the snack machines. The building quiet save for its own creaks and other sounds in the stillness of the morning. The walls had the feel of whitewash over stone, that subtle texture on wall you didn’t get with smooth plaster. The neutral honeyed colour a great background for pictures of the types of clients who used the tennis courts, laughing and engaged. 

A few of the pictures made up poster-sized collage under glass: groups of people posing for a photo with themed team shirts for their hen dos, gap toothed children doing drills on child sized tennis courts, small tennis racquets to hand. All the colours saturated, everyone’s face glowing and lit as if ran through Instagram filters. Text messages in balloons stamped across a few pictures in languages he recognised, if not understood. 

There were other pictures, dotted here and there. The ones that drew his eye were a grid of Eric in the style of old sports photos in his tennis whites at Wimbledon. That sort of filter you’d run through Instagram, with that sepia tinged 1970s flavour, but too crisp for it to be truly of that time. 

At Wimbledon, a series of pictures of Eric in motion; features hidden under the sharp shadow of his white visor, the rest of his kit in white, tennis racket an extension of his arm. His posture caught between the predatory crouch, and an extension of a leap towards the blur of the ball hurtling towards him. 

He’d only ever watched Eric play live once and that had been the match. Eric had never forgiven him for it, as much as he said otherwise. The one match Dele had rocked up to watch, Eric had gone down, retiring from the sport due to injuries some months after. 

Shaking the memory away, Dele moved on. He slipped his headphones into his ears, pushed at the door by the front of the unmanned reception desk and stepped outside. 

Late, late summer, edging into autumn and the sun yet to fully rise, the temperature just about pleasant. A few stretches he did out of habit, because he’d been always been involved with sports since he could walk - now representing sports people for a living - he’d always felt obliged to keep his hand in. 

A benefit of warmer air, he could breathe deeper, his co-ordination steadier. He jogged on noting the tennis courts, wondered what the difference between the red and blue ones were. Knew he should know, since Eric had been involved in tennis when they’d met, but it had been about Eric from the jump. 

His face and demeanor staying with him the morning after the night they had met, instinct telling him to go for it, even at the risk of straining his friendship with Nora.

***

“What’s this?” Nora asked, poking her finger at the bag. The distinct white and red packaging on the desk between them. They were in her office, a small space tucked in a suite of offices in Whitechapel. A small room, one wall filled from floor to ceiling with tomes and giant arch lever files, in varying colours of brown, navy and black, blue ink in blocky print across white labels of topics and dates.

On the surface of the desk between them, she kept it scrupulously clean, with nothing but their files, and the small paper bag Dele placed on the desk. 

“You _have_ seen Eric, right?” she continued, now resting her chin in her palm, her elbow on her desk, her rings glinting in the light. “He’s a unit, and looks like he’d be on a starting seventeen rather than doing a grind or a kickflip.”

Dele slumped in the chair across from her, more due to comfort rather than shying away from her direct gaze. Their business now over: in terms of advice sought, given, accepted and tasked to be acted on. This was pleasure; they liked each other enough to stay behind and chit chat for a few minutes before going their separate ways until they saw each other again. 

“Do you think he’d be a flanker or a back?” Dele smiled, his fingers tapping against the cushioned arms of the chair. 

“Probably a fly half. Eric’s intelligent, and knows how to read the game. He’s --- just unlucky with injuries,” Nora’s mouth twisted into a pout, the light in her eyes dimmed a bit. “He’d be so far ahead if --” she cut herself off, her ring and pinky fingers pressed against her lips. Dele recognised the tell as self censure, as she shifted her gaze to him. 

“Eric is -- _busy_ ,” Nora stressed the word. “I know how you like to collect and cultivate people. I also know you can be a bit--- _careless_ when they don’t suit your needs,” she finished delicately. “For the sake of his mindset and career, if you’re doing this for a bit of fun, I’m asking you kindly to leave him alone.”

“I--” Dele started, ready to make light of Nora’s comment, but didn’t. Her position with Eric made him pause. It wasn’t worth risking Nora’s friendship for a pursuit that might go cold in the end, and it wasn’t as if their meeting had been the greatest anyway. Eric’s glare frigid, his voice haughty, but... you never knew where a path might lead, be it personal or professional.  
Dele wasn’t one to overlook a prospective link, and Eric had piqued his interest, being English but not really because he was based abroad. That had possibilities via networking - he didn’t know what kind just yet, but still... possibilities. He’d gotten this far with a lot hustle and guile, but instinctive networking had contributed to some early successes too. 

Still, he didn’t want to piss off Nora. 

Until Eric’s face flashed across his mind a moment later, and Dele knew he wasn’t going to let the opportunity go.  
After a minute’s reflection, he compromised, made his request reasonable. “I’m just reaching out. Pass it on to him, with my contact details. The ball is in his court. If he doesn’t respond, it ends there.”

“Promise?” Nora asked, “and put your hands on the table, so I know that you’re not crossing your fingers with your promise to me.”

“Are you--? _Nora_.”

_“Dele.”_

Dele shifted, leaned over and placed his palms on the glass, fingers splayed. Looking her in the eye, he deadpanned, “I promise.” 

“Okay, now try this,” the voice directed in his ear. “You say to the waitress, ‘No. No wine, thank you’.” a beat of silence- the answer kicked in before Dele had the chance to think-  
“ _Não, eu não quero vinho, obrigado._ ”

Dele shook his head at the request asked by his foreign language audio. He’d have to listen to this bit again, he thought, because he’d been too busy woolgathering. He had gotten a good sweat on by now, jogging past Ziggy and Bowie, lolling on the steps of the patio, their heads lolling on their paws, their tongues hanging out. Not too far from their lumbering bodies, two clean, filled watering bowls with their names printed on their sides. 

“Hey lads,” Dele grinned, dropping onto his haunches, holding out his hand to be licked. Bowie raised his head and gave a friendly _woof_.  
“Ah, you want to run with me?”

Ziggy tilted his head, and aimed a narrow eyed stare at him. The doggy version of telling him where he could go and sling his hook. Dele nodded his head in agreement, as if he understood dog. 

“Too hot, yeah? Don’t I know it.”

Dele raised his head, already wiping at his brow with one hand, and smoothing Ziggy’s head with the other. He made to move his hand, only for Ziggy to do that head tilt of disappointment that dogs tended to do when you took away your affections from them too soon. With a contented sigh, Dele gave Ziggy’s head a final stroke before pushing himself to his feet. Loped into a light jog and didn’t stop until he got in the vicinity of the tennis courts on the far side of the premises, pulling up when he heard a rhythmic _ka klop_ of ball against wall. 

After a couple days in and around the property, Dele thought he knew the various sounds of balls against various surfaces. A tennis ball sounded different bouncing off the face from racquet to racquet. From racquet to court and now, racquet to wall. If asked, he couldn’t explain _how_ , he just knew. 

He slowed down, tugging at the wire of his headphones, the buds falling from his ears into his other hand. 

Eric now on a modified half court, tennis racquet in outstretched hand, feet shifting and moving as he crossed from side to side, lobbing the tennis ball against nothing but a wall, painted green. On the painted wall, a horizontal line painted white and about a metre from the ground, like you found on a squash court. On the ground, the now familiar white lines of the tennis markings bright against the blue of the court. His feet quick, the chunky knee brace breaking up the line of his left leg. 

Rubbing his earplugs together, between his thumb and forefinger, Dele stood, and watched.

He didn’t know what he was looking at, not really. 

Knew that it was some sort of practice, Eric covering the area efficiently, with moves halfway between a dance and a basketball defensive shuffle. Two steps, racquet out. A leap, covered the area, hit the ball. Always returning to the centre line, bouncing on the balls of his feet, tennis racquet in front of his torso. 

All of this movement, of stepping to cover the court from side to side. Sometimes holding the racquet with both hands, then a ... forearm? The one time the ball bounced out of his reach, Eric pivoted, racquet out, snapping at the ball with a neat backhand. Only to get back to the steady, smooth motion of hitting the ball against the wall. Not in a wild, thrashing way, but with an easy control. 

Even in the relatively mild temperature of the morning, Eric got a sweat on, limbs glowing with it. His shirt clinging to his back, from the exertion and heat. His shirt soaked through to the point of transparency, enough to see the muscles of his back in play, reacting to every action demanded of it. The ball having enough of a rhythm for Dele to click into the tempo of it, almost to the point of a lull. 

Until Eric stumbled. 

A slight wobble, but enough for the ball to hit the wall at an odd angle. To ricochet from the wall. Zooming towards him like a green-yellow head of a small comet. 

Dele jerked out of the way, the ball whistling past his face in a blur of yellow. 

Eric not even stopping in mid stride as he slipped another tennis ball from his pockets- bulging like nuts in a squirrel’s cheeks. Tossed the ball in the air for a serve - and missed.  
He swore loud, long and fluidly. “ _Caralho_ ,” he finished, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “ _Fucking, fu-_ I’m done. I--” 

Only the ingrained respect for his racquet made him not throw it across the court or against the wall. Sometimes, working the wall was a study in making him at the very least, frustrated. Time for a coffee, he thought, tightening his grip on his racket as he turned on his heel and -stopped, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he caught himself. 

“Dele,” he greeted in overly polite tones. No matter their history, right now, Dele was a guest. Stood there in his short sleeves, his tattoos stark and dark against the tawny cast of his skin. Noting the oversized shirt and shorts - not that Dele could help it, he had the spare lean lines akin to a greyhound. He’d have shirts that fit his shoulders, to hang off his frame like a sail, unless narrowly cut. 

“Eric,” Dele said in the same tones. But then, he always had a good poker face. 

Either exceedingly serious, eyes blank, and mouth in a line. Or set in lines of detached amusement, a certain light in the darkness of his eyes, and a smirk. This morning, the latter; his eyes twinkling under thick lashes, and more of a grin than a smirk this time. Again, Eric annoyed being on the back foot and somewhat agitated by Dele’s unassailable calm. 

Only for his gaze to drop to Dele’s hand. 

Seeing his headphones rubbing between his thumb and forefinger.

Took his time lifting his gaze from Dele’s hand, to his tattooed arms, the set of his shoulders. Eric’s gaze settling on Dele’s face, and smiled.  
Politely. 

“You’re up...earlier than I thought you would be,” Eric ran a hand through his sweat matted hair, making a face at his own stink. 

“It’s the heat, and -- you don’t have a pool. So, I thought I’d run.”

“Hmmm,” Eric took great pains to look at his racquet strings, pressing his fingers against the worn spots. He _should_ tell Dele that as a client of the school, he had access to the pool over by Hotel Mar for the duration of his stay. 

“Sorry,” he finished, not sorry at all. 

“It’s fine,” Dele waved it off, “I’ll let you go,” he said, popping his earphones back in his ears. With a jaunty wave he was off, running away from Eric and towards the tennis courts in the far distance. 

Eric stood there for a minute, watching him. Dele always had had the ease of a runner, with a smooth gait and the pumping of arms. After a minute, he shook his head, and went off in the direction of the showers.

***

**10:00 am, court number five**

“You--” Hugo wrinkled his brow, arms folded across his torso as he eyed his ten o’clock.  
They were both on court number five, the child’s court, broken down into distinctive coloured squares, overlaid by its distinct white lines.  
“You’re my ten o'clock?” Hugo asked incredulously. 

Dele shrugged as easy as anything, arrowing a grin in Hugo’s direction, disappointed but not surprised when said weapon of disarming tensions bounced off. This had been the only time slot available, and going by the guidelines on the website, he showed up wearing a light coloured shirt, matching shorts and tennis shoes that were still too new, bought from the sports shop in the nearby town.  
While they gawked at each other, the activity now in full swing on the other courts, people already in motion. Some clients doing stretches with their coaches, others in the midst of court drills with racquets but no ball in play as yet. Some courts had groups of people, some pairs. Everyone glowing from the sun and sweat, and bouncing with happiness. 

On the nearby court, a pair doing warm up volleys with a slow, tempered, rhythmic back and forth with the ball between them. 

“Yeah.”

“But you are... Dele.”

“Yeah. I just used my full name,” Dele explained. A rarity, because he had no affection for it, but had the feeling that Hugo would have objected if he’d known Dele had signed on as a client. Dele long enough in the tooth to know that sometimes, you had to manage the situation the other party wouldn’t be able to say no, either due to _fait accompli_ or inertia. 

Hugo shrugged. “You signed up for child’s slot, and left your age as nine.”

“Two plus zero plus seven,” Dele spelt out his reasoning. “Twenty seven. When you break it down, two plus zero plus seven is nine.”

“I see.” Hugo replied, in the dry tones of the unamused. “Normally, I’d ask the child and their parent why the child wants to learn tennis. Then we’d warm up and go from there...” He stroked his dark beard with blunt edged fingers, “but -- okay.”

A brief look passed between them, more of a challenge if truth be told, to see who would be embarrassed enough to back down first. Hugo’s cool insouciance to Dele’s brimming cheek.

“You’re tall enough and strong enough to be on the adult sized court, but we will manage,” Hugo went on, as he made his way to the tennis bags, on the side of the court taking out a racquet that was almost toylike in size, and tennis balls with some shade of dark green felt. 

Oh. 

OH.

A _child’s_ lesson. 

Of _course_ , you’d need to practice on a different sized court, with appropriate tennis racquets and balls. Realised belatedly why the receptionist at the front desk seemed surprised at his request for that particular time slot; hiding a giggle behind her hand like a schoolgirl when he _insisted_ he knew what he had asked for, thank you very much. Like everything else when it came to Eric, a lot of things overcame common sense. 

“Next time, book a lesson as an adult, hmm?”

***

“Whoa,” Caro greeted with surprise, as Eric pulled up in his land rover, stepped out and around, opened up the back doors. Ziggy and Bowie jumped out, squriming and sniffing the ground. You’d have thought Ziggy and Bowie had been in the back of a hot car for _hours_ such was their relief in bolting out of the vehicle, arrowing towards Caro.

Caro and her dogs lived a few miles outside Old Town, on a patch of land that seemed more scrubland than anything else. Her property big enough to accomodate the spread of Stone pine trees in the distance, where even in the summer, they threw shade everywhere. The house and kennels tucked into something of a hill, the available land in front - more rolling than flat- given up to Caro’s business/passion - kennelling dogs with a veterinary practice on the side. 

Her main market the expats who left their dogs behind while either visiting their children away, or those who hosted their children here, but unable to host their dogs either due to the crush of activities set out, or lack of space. The relative quiet of the grounds alerting Eric that a lot of the dogs were on their mid morning walks, before the sun shone too brightly. Or in the kennels over yonder, some were being bathed and groomed for their owners coming back today. 

“You’re early,” she sent him a fleeting smile before dropping on her haunches to greet Bowie and Ziggy. Raised her palms up as a way of introducing herself, as if they didn’t know her by her smell, and manner. For a time, a brief time - from Ziggie and Bowie being pups to early doggy adolescence- all four of them had all been a unit once.  
Eric, Caro and their fur babies. 

Dark, wavy hair gathered on top of her head in a loose top knot, wisps of hair sticking to her temples and the nape of her neck due to her exertions. By this time, she would have already been up, walking the dogs which were kenneled whilst their owners were away, and then working on agility exercises with her show dogs. Caro’s limbs bare and tan - because if you were a German living in the Algarve you couldn’t avoid being bare and tan - her skin dewy from sweat and sun. 

“Thanks for not giving me grief about Bowie and Ziggy when I wanted them the other day,” he started, knowing he’d said the wrong thing as Caro frowned. 

“They’re your dogs,” she said at last, shooting him a look from lowered lashes. 

“Yeah but...” Eric stooped, rubbed Bowie’s head. “I’ve been too busy and -- thanks for taking care of them for me.”

“Of course,” Caro gave him a brief smile before turning her affections to the dogs and murmuring softly at them, before pushing herself to her feet. “Do you have their leashes?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Eric slipped a hand in the pocket of his shorts, and handed her their leashes. She smiled at him, slipping the leashes on their collars. A rule; from the gate all the way to the house, the dogs weren’t allowed to roam unsupervised.

***

“A drink?” Caro asked later, “I’d offer you a beer, but you’re driving.”

“A water, if you have it,” he answered. Caro was one of those people whose home was her office and vice versa. She didn’t think anything of bringing working quests into her home kitchen. Eric, on the other hand, believed in the separation of work and personal life - to the point where he lived off premises.

Caro’s kitchen bright and airy, with a mixture of rustic wood for the stout table and chairs, contrasting with the modern chrome details and bright and bold pops of colour from the Portuguese traditional blue and white tiles behind the sink. 

“Ah,” Caro opened her fridge, tilted her head and lifted her eyebrows as if something in there had caught her by surprise.  
He’d seen that face before. 

The last time he’d seen it, there had been a cat in the fridge. 

Alive, peacefully sleeping behind the milk, and none too pleased about being found out at the height of the Portuguese summer. This time though, the reason something more banal. 

“There’s no sparkling water,” she said at last, “will orange juice be okay?”

“Fine.”

***

“What’s the good news, Eric?” Caro asked over drinks and a serving of sliced fruit and cheese on the table between them. Caro ever the hostess -no matter how ordinary the occasion - like Eric dropping off his dogs by her for a bit. On the gnarled surface of the table between them a linen runner with colourful pops of flowers and birds embroidered along its sides. A plate done in traditional blue and white Portuguese tile work, with chilled grapes, nectarines and figs as offering.

Eric took a sip of his orange juice. The kind with the pulp in it, so you had to half chew, half drink. It wasn’t his favourite, but in this heat, it beat food.  
“I hear you have a visitor?” Caro coaxed, half her face hidden by her oversized mug, her fingers laid on its side, and supporting its bottom, as if drinking her water geisha style.  
He raised his eyebrows, frowned. Knew Hugo would have told her. Normally Eric would have been annoyed, but it was Caro, herself still important and meaningful, no matter how their relationship ended.  
“Yes,” he answered, placing his half filled glass on the surface of the table. “I --” and there was no other way to say it, but. “Dele.”

Caro blinked once, twice as if startled. Leaned back in her chair, and gazed at him.  
Didn’t say a word for a full minute, a sharp vertical line between her brows. She bit her lips, and scratched under her nose with her nail. Eric swiped at the side of his glass, silently waiting on her verdict.  
She half laughed, her voice darkly amused, “ _Das Gespenst_.” 

“Caro-” Eric pleaded, reaching across to touch the back of her hand, heartened when she didn’t shy away nor bunched her fingers into a fist like she would have years ago. 

Caro said nothing but, “Really?”  
“Caro-” and oh, he was too late. 

“You two were bad for each other, remember? Why the sudden change of heart now?”

“He’s making up for it, after a fashion,” Eric replied, his chin resting on his fist of his other hand, his elbow on the table. “With money, much needed money.”

“Oh _Eric_ ,” Caro shook her head, “that must be killing you.”

A beat of silence, enough for him to hear the faint hum of the fridge in the background, and the distant bark of dog.  
“It’s fine. He’s just by mine for a few weeks, it’s-”

“And how is he?” Caro shifted in her chair, turning to face him more fully. Dele and Caro had never met, but Caro had known about Dele well enough to ask, especially during that brief time they’d dated - and she hadn’t been wrong calling him a ghost. A presence that Eric couldn’t shake off soon enough. 

“He’s...” Eric began, worrying his chapped lower lip with his teeth, seeing everything and nothing. “ _Dele_. A bit older, not much wiser, and still a bit of a shit.”

“Charming.”

“Everyone likes him well enough,” Eric admitted, and wasn’t that galling? Even Hugo had expressed cautious enthusiasm in terms of how quickly Dele had taken to the principles of the sport after his first few lessons. Not that he’d ever be a Nadal or Federer, but he might turn out to be good enough that you’d want to have on side in a casual doubles game. 

“And you?”

“I-” Eric’s voice trailed off. Dele’s face in his mind, his presence under his skin. It wasn’t fair, not here, not now. 

“Eric?”

“I don’t have the bandwidth,” he said aloud, shaking his head. “I don’t. But I - I look at him and - I see what I shouldn’t see.”

Caro placed her mug on the table, raking the tendrils of her hair away from her face and tucking them behind her ear. “I’m not doing it again,” she said, voice firm. “I’m not going to go through this again with you.”

Eric shook his head, “Go through -- ? _Caro_ ,” he reached for her hand, sliding his thumb along the back of her hand. “It’s not like that. I’m better now. Like I just said, the lack of bandwidth? I’m still buffering.”

“Okay,” Caro sent him a look, direct and bold. “I’ll take your word for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [flanker](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flanker_\(rugby_union\)) and back are positions in [rugby](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rugby_union_positions). There are fifteen members of a rugby team compared to a starting eleven in football/soccer (instead of seventeen as said in the text. Mea culpa).


	6. Chapter 6

**Music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/0vutx39uqsky4m7/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter5_music.mp3?dl=0) [18.0 MB, 00:36:26]  


**Non-music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/qwqb9q34ob7jc8l/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter5_NoMusic.mp3?dl=0) [13.7 MB, 00:35:56]  


**Old Town - Albufeira**

“Adam, sorry that I disappeared,” Dele apologized to his client over the phone, his mobile at his ear as he sat outside on the patio. In front of him, a half eaten meal of fish with potato fritters, looking out at the beach, “I-- something came up, so I’m just having a bit of a holiday.” 

“You?” a peal of laughter coming from the other line. “I mean, you deserve it, but -- you normally tell us before swanning off to wherever.”

“Yeah, well,” Dele drawled. “I just needed a holiday.”

“Right,” and Dele heard the slap of something heavy like a magazine against a surface which was weird, because in the age of tablets and mobile phones, magazines seemed a novelty. “Not about Woodrow?”

“Don’t you start too.”

“Hah,” Adam laughed. “It’s been all over the sports sections in the papers over here.” Adam’s voice loud and cheerful over the click of cutlery. 

“Bleurgh.”

“Seriously,” Adam said, “You shouldn’t be calling me though. Not on your ---” _Time out_ Dele thought sourly. “Hols,” Adam finished, in his usual friendly way. 

Dele closed his eyes against the crowds and the scenery for a minute. Opened them. “I may be on holiday, but I’m not dead. But enough about me, how’s Cologne?”

“Wet and cold,” Adam laughed, sounding so young over the phone. “No worse than London, weather wise, but amazing. I’m actually playing.”

“Oh yeah?” Dele dipped a corner of bread into the oils and sauce oozing from the sardines and roasted tomatoes in front of him, listening to Adam as he talked about his time for a few minutes. 

As an agent, Dele was part broker, part psychiatrist, part hustler with nurse sprinkled in. The last thing a player needed was static coming from the outside. They were like... hot house orchids, needing to be fussed with, and tended to all the time. Although to be fair, Adam was a fern in a forest of flowers, unshowy, but there.  
He’d been a Chelsea academy lad, who’d signed his first professional club contract with the club of his heart, but got tired of being farmed out on loan everywhere else. When that contract ran down, and a new one came up, he’d rejected it out right. 

“I want to go somewhere and play,” he’d said to Dele. “Anywhere.”

When the offer from Cologne came in, Dele did The Pitch. 

Yes, the wages nowhere what an English club was willing to pay for talent, but listen: If you did the work, show the work, the rewards would come, he’d said. “It’s a great life’s experience. New club, new country, new language-- it can only help.”  
Adam did a noncommittal _hmmm_ over his glass of juice at the bar in SoHo, when they’d had the meeting back in July. 

“You said _anywhere_ ,” Dele pointed out to his client. 

Ready to take another tack, like pointing out his age, and he was at the stage Where He Needed to Play. Before he took a breath, ready to launch into that spiel, Adam nodded, pushing his locs away from his face. “You’re right, I did,” he nodded, expression sober and guile free. 

“I know no German though, blud. I only have GCSE French. With a C. I know enough to know the languages aren’t the same.”

Well, that was something. “You’ll be fine.”

Fast forward to five weeks after the summer transfer window had closed - and he was. 

If all his clients were like Adam, Dele thought, he probably wouldn’t have to guzzle Galveston like water around the time of the transfer windows. 

“Wow, it’s that late?” Adam asked, his voice stirring Dele out of his thoughts. “Sorry, I need to go, we have training later this afternoon, and I still don’t know my way around the city.”

“I’ll let you go.”

“You’re alright, it’s my fault, really. I probably ought to get my licence,” Adam said. Spoken like a true kid who grew up in a metropolis with comprehensive transport links. “If I leave now, I can get to Weiden West in twenty.”

“We’ll catch up when you’re over for your winter break, then?”

“Of course. It will be brilliant, see you then. Bye, Dele.”

“ _Tchau_ ,” Dele said, before frowning at himself and the phone. _Where did that come from?_.

Took his phone away from his ear, and looked at it. Thinking that he should call Winks and see what was up. But... Winks would ask after Eric, because that’s the sort of lad he was, and Dele had nothing to say except, _He’s... Eric_. 

A bit distant, a bit moody and still...Eric. 

Someone whom he still found attractive, even today stinking and wet with sweat and exertion. His hair plastered against his forehead the colour of dull gold, his furrow lines deepened by the intensity of the sun and heat in this part of the world. 

Knew enough of Eric’s body language to know that - there was something there. 

Unsaid and charged. 

Thought about what Winks and Nora in their different ways would say about _that_ , and pressed his fingers against his eyes for a few moments. 

Winks had always liked Eric, in the way of a friend liking the person you went out with better than you - their _actual_ friend. Not in an erotic or predatory way, but just appreciating all of the person’s qualities. In a lot of ways, and Dele could admit this to himself - Winks probably liked Eric more than he liked Dele himself - and they were partners. Nora as neutral as Switzerland, she hadn’t taken sides during the wax and wane and wane of their relationship over the years. 

Kept her relationships with Eric and Dele separate, and fair.

Right, Eric was off limits. Had to be off limits, because he couldn’t live with the disappointment stemming from Winks and Nora if they went there. Again. 

The Algarve was filled with beautiful people, and if he felt so inclined, he could make do. Case in point, the brunette with the bright green eyes wagging her fingers in his direction, before turning around to her friends and laughing, her hair swinging around her shoulders like an inky cloak. Her body lithe and tanned, striking against the bright tropical print of her summer dress. 

See? Dele thought to himself as he returned her wave. 

Beautiful people everywhere.

***

If anyone had told Dele two weeks ago that he’d be spending a holiday on the Algarve haunting around a tennis camp like a restless spirit ten p.m. at night, he’d have dismissed them as absolutely barking. The courts empty of people and activity, but held the strange residue of energies both on the grounds and in the air.  
The flood lights bright enough for him to realise that there was no one here but him and memories not worth thinking about, but still-

Card pass key in hand, he stepped through the gates that lead one through on to the tennis courts, neatly set out side by side like cards on a croupier’s table. When he and Eric had been - whatever they’d been- he’d spent little time watching him from the sidelines. Between drills, training and conditioning, Eric spent at least six hours a day honing his game. When he wasn’t training, he was on tour. Dele had his own work and life commitments, both in England and away, and they had liked the arrangement as it stood. 

“Really?” Winks had asked in shocked tones, when Dele had told him about exactly where they stood. “You’ve never seen him train--- or even play?”

“No, not really,” Dele remembered telling Winks back then, scanning the screen of his phone and looking at train schedules. “Who has the time?”

“Errrm...” Winks blinked owlishly, as he looked up from his laptop screen. Both of them in the tiny kitchen of their flatshare, Winks with his trusty mug of tea at the side of his laptop, seated at their small table. 

He had taken his time to speak, and when he did, answered cautiously, “Not saying you have to live in each other’s pockets, but --”

“But?”

“A part of relationships is having some interest in what the other person does? Or just even, being there? Like, you don’t have to go all _savant_ , but you know. You can do more than what you’re doing.”

“Like?”

“Never mind,” giving up, Winks reached for his mug of tea. “I’m sure both of you know what you’re about.”

They did. 

Being involved with an actively touring tennis player had been... different. 

Once every six weeks, Eric stopped in London, his choice of digs being Chiswick. A part of London which boasted quiet and comfortable surroundings, away from the bustle and the noise of the rest of the patchwork of communities that made up the rest of the city. 

He sometimes stopped at Nora’s, but most times did not. Today being one of those times, spending his time in a bolt hole, somewhere along The Thames. 

“I’m a member of Holland Park Lawn Tennis Club,” Eric explained the reason for his periodical stops in London. “Marianne Boucher is based here -- and it’s good to hear a different voice when I can.”

Half five, late afternoon. 

Too early to go out for dinner, too late for lunch. 

Eric leaning against the wall, hands behind his back. The room warm enough for him to be clad in a t-shirt and shorts. Eric had spent enough time in the sun for his hair to be bleached blonde, his skin tan. His legs crossed at their ankles, calves and thighs strong and honed from hours of gym and playing time. His shoulders set, his arms partially hidden behind his torso. 

Dele’s eyes on Eric to the exclusion of everything else in the room. In his mind, everything else faded into the background. The volume of the TV in the room low, low enough for the odd roar of engine or the chime of bicycle bells from outside to come through. 

“What does Hugo say?” Dele asked, dropping his phone and keys on the side table.

“It doesn’t matter,” Eric didn’t move, his eyes dark and on Dele. 

The expression in them wary at first. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if unsure about them being in the same room. As they spoke, the guarded gaze would spark into something alive and bright with lust. 

With all that, Eric still content to wait and be still until Dele closed the distance between them. In the dance only they knew, Dele took his time until the air vibrated between them with need. 

Another competition then, to see who would break first. 

“Where are you going next?” Dele asked, toeing his shoes off, floor chilled through the soles of his socks, crossing the room, closing the distance between them.

“Lugano. Switzerland. The second week in April,” Eric dropped his gaze from Dele’s face for a few seconds, before lifting it again, catching Dele off guard once more. Eric’s features cool to the point of neutral, which is why the next sentence made Dele stop in mid stride. “You should come.”

“I’ll be in Madrid.” 

“Ah.”

“April 23rd?” Dele asked, closing the distance between them, his hands braced against the wall, on either side of Eric’s head. Eric’s eyes bored under lowered lashes, before he opened them fully, their gazes locked. 

“Bahamas. Eight weeks.”

“Oh,” Dele said, taken aback at his keen disappointment. “This is all a bit shit, isn’t it?”

“A bit,” Eric agreed, tangling his fingers in Dele’s shirt, Dele allowing himself to be pulled towards Eric, his hands falling away from the wall and on Eric. Their noses rubbing against each other, sharing a parcel of the same air. Eric’s lips opening a fraction, breathing, not moving. Dele not saying a word, skimming his hand alongside Eric’s back to his hip. “At least,” Eric murmured, his arm around Dele’s neck, his breath on his lips. “We’re here.”

Dele licking into Eric’s mouth, always staggered at the greed and heat between them. The spike of temperature at Eric nipping at his lip.  
“Eric,” he murmured, because he liked the sound of his name in his mouth. Might have said it again but now Eric sucking on his tongue. Air thinning and blood quickening as they slid against the wall and collapsed on the floor. Eric pulling at the hem of Dele’s shirt. Dele’s hands already on his skin. Flushed and dewey in the dim lights, Eric’s bare torso all his. His breath stuttering under Dele’s teeth and tongue, his eyes fluttering closed. 

The room edging into darkness because they’d forgotten to turn on the lights. They kissed again, Eric swallowing his moans as he reached between them and-- 

Dele shook off the memory. Since he’d been here, he’d availed himself of any distraction, today being no different. The most notable so far had been catching up with the attractive woman who’d waved at him over lunch. 

“So, what brings you to the Algarve, then?”

Dele didn’t answer immediately, taking a seat opposite his companion for the minute. The brunette with the bright green eyes back then in the restaurant. 

Both on the balcony of her hotel room, with dazzling views of the coast line for their pleasure. On the main beach before them, a grid of umbrellas and sunbeds spread out in colour. Beyond the grid, a cluster of individual umbrellas offside like multicoloured florets of dandelions scattering across straw coloured sand. The beach and sea itself clustered with people who bobbed up and down the waves like buoys. Which was all the more surprising considering the summer season was over. 

Their balcony itself large enough for two small wicker chairs and an accompanying table.  
She’d shaken off her friends, and he was free, and her hotel nearby, so...

“Holiday, getting drunk,” Dele reached for the vape pen on the table between them, proceeded to fiddle with it. The vape pen about the size and weight of a chunky fountain pen, its casing a hot, bright pink. “What else do English men do in the Algarve?”

“I don’t know,” Beatriz - yes, that was her name, Beatriz - answered with lowered lashes. If you kept the focus tight, just on her face, she came across as wholly innocent, long dark hair unbound, a slight overbite giving her a full pout. Her face scrubbed clear of makeup save the faint tint of a lip stain making her look like a college co-ed. Pull the camera back a bit, the image more risqué, dusky nipples covered by her unbound fall of black hair. Her limbs long and bare, her legs folded under her body and on the cushioned seat. “You’re the first English man I’ve spoken with in a while.”

Not that they had spoken much but, okay. 

Her accent hard to place, the terms very British English than American.  
Her English fluent, her diction solid, but too musical to be a Brit.  
“Sooo...” Dele began, twirling the vape pen in his fingers as they looked at each other. Beatriz held out her hand, wagging her fingers in his direction. He placed the vape pen in her hand, and she brought it to her lips, puffed at it. 

“Do you smoke, Dele?”

“No.”

“Good,” she pulled at the nozzle of her vape pen, her head thrown back, her eyes half closed, her lips pursed as she puffed out vapour that smelled of cinnamon and apple.  
“Don’t start.”

Later, when he’d shrugged into his clothing, everything in pockets, shoes in hand. Him standing by the door of her hotel room, he looked at Beatriz, and asked, “Would you like to --?” 

Not even feeling the slightest bit surprised or insulted when she shook her head, no. 

“I-” her hand splayed against his chest, the pressure on his chest forcing him to walk backwards. “I’m selfish, and I want it to be all about me and,” she stopped, dissecting him with a sharp look. “You weren’t all there.”

Ouch. 

Before Dele could even get a word in, Beatriz raised her eyebrows, gave him that smile again. The one that encouraged him to leave his table and rock up to hers, the one that now bid him goodbye. 

“I hope you enjoy your holiday, Dele. Take care.”

“Thanks, I-” he began, only for her to shut the door in his face, and lock it. Dele stood there, half in a trance, breaking out of it as water hit tile in a shower of white noise.  
_Did she just...?_  
Dele raised his hand, half way curling it into a fist to rap on the door - only to take a step back. _What was he doing?_

One last look at the door, and he left, drove around for awhile, before grudgingly returning here. Too restless to go up to his room, now walking along the edge of the tennis courts like a demented thing. 

He couldn’t go back to London, not just yet, he knew. Let him be yesterday’s news, and give the solicitors space to work whilst he was away. He owed Winks not to fuck this up. 

Looked at the courts again, the grounds laid out as neatly as a table setting at a formal dinner. 

Clenching his hands into fists, he realised the decision had been made for him. 

“Buggery. If I’m going to be here anyway,” Dele muttered to himself, “I might as well get myself a racquet.”

***

On Saturday mornings, Eric manned the small tennis shop on the premises.  
His shift 09:00 - 12:00, until Oliwia took over for another three hours. The tennis shop sold gear by established brands, such as Wilson, Dunlop, Slazenger and Head. It tended to be more focused on tools for tennis and miscellany related the sport; mainly racquets, wristlets, tennis balls. With a very limited selection of accessories and clothing.

Oliwia, being Oliwia, had a checklist of things to do behind the cash register. 

Said duties laminated, attached to a clipboard with accompanying fibre tipped pen, but Eric had been around long enough for duties to be as ingrained as ritual. The Air Con on as necessity, radio tuned into a local radio station, with chatter and popular music in the background. 

The floor cleaned, CHECK. 

Shelves dusted and stock replenished, CHECK. 

Float in the till in varying cash and coin denominations and power turned on, CHECK.

Only then, was he allowed to switch the sign to ABERTO. 

Duties done, the shop set up, he turned his attention to a chore he kept putting off. 

To the far corner of the shop, everything pretty much ready to go for the job in hand. The standalone racquet stringing machine itself switched on and humming, along with one of his favourite racquets suspended in its clamps, his favoured strings and a manual clamp to hand on its surface. He glanced at his watch.  
Thought for a bit. 

Normally, the shop itself would be quiet until about eleven a.m. He should probably just pull his finger out and get it done. 

Or at least, he told himself, _begin_. 

Eric had strung enough of his own racquets over the years for the procedure to be almost second nature. Starting from the throat of the racquet, he went to work with his prefered strings. The machine a second hand manual instead of the fancy automatic ones. Free standing, a bit above waist height, and from end to end the size of a modest office photocopier. Looks wise, it had the impression of a vice grip crossed with a weaving loom, with the floating clamps to stand in the grooves where needed. Those teeth like things held the tensioned strings in place while he worked. The day before, Eric had cranked it to get the perfect tension, locked the clamps into position and now... it was time to get to work. 

His hands and eyes knowing enough for the process to go smoothly, allowing his mind to have a wander. Eric liked his life, the area of the country he lived in, his friends, his _circle_. Even with all the hiccoughs, and the annoyance of monetary issues, he was engaged, involved. So why then this nagging thought of feeling stagnant, of needing something _different_? As if --- and he could never articulate it, not to Caro, Hugo or even Nora. Although Hugo came close as to how he was feeling. 

_Sell up_ , Hugo advised from time to time. _Find out what sort of person you are away from tennis. You’ve never known anything else. Have given up everything else. Don’t you think you should?_

Yet when he said it, Eric poured cold water on the subject, not wanting to think about it. After everything, it would have been a wrench to --  
The chime of the bell alerted him to a customer, and Eric tried not to be annoyed, because he’d just started stringing his mains. Swallowing back his frustration at being interrupted, dropping the tools of his trade, he stepped to the front of the shop. 

“ _Bom dia_ ,” he made his voice friendly, and bright. “ _Posso_ \-- oh. It’s you.”

“ _Bom dia_ to you too, mate,” Dele greeted. 

“ _Bom dia_ , if you need any --”

If Dele had been insulted by Eric’s less than friendly greeting, you wouldn’t know it by his manner. He seemed determined to be cheerful. Dele turned out in appropriate wear, of short sleeved shirt and tennis shorts, which was ... curious. 

“Actually, yeah,” Dele said, brushing past Eric just to stop at the wall of racquets on display, with Eric trailing behind, almost bumping into him as Dele suddenly stopped and pivoted to face him. 

“You,” he pointed a finger in Eric’s direction, “are the one I’ve been looking for.”

Eric’s reply sarcastic and biting, “Huzzah.”

“Ah, ah, ah, be nice,” Dele said, wagging his index finger in Eric’s direction, before turning his attention to the display of racquets on the wall once more. “I’m a paying customer.”

“Fair,” Eric nodded, his gaze following Dele’s own as they looked at the grid outlay of tennis racquets in their individual slots on the display board. The shop wasn’t a _Decathlon_ by any stretch of the imagination, but for his clients’ needs, it had a decent range of racquets available across varying levels. “How can I help?”

“I need a racquet. For my lesson.”

Eric frowned, turning to look at Dele fully. Dele’s gaze still on the colourful racquet display in front of him as if searching for meaning in the abstract paintings hanging in the Louvre, and didn’t know where to look. “Are you sure?” Eric asked, puzzled. “Racquets _are_ a part of the lesson hire?”

“I might have booked a block of time over by court five,” Dele admitted. “For the rest of my holiday here. With Hugo.”

Eric pressed his fingers against his mouth, because it wouldn’t do to laugh at a customer. It. Just. Wouldn’t. Even though Dele would have been the sort of tosser to -- 

“I might have lied about my age.”

Yes, Eric nodded, because that was peak Dele. “Oh?”

“Probably,” Dele admitted, unabashedly. “A little.”

At Eric’s look of skepticism, Dele sighed with great drama. “No judgement. The court and times were all clear and what I need to get my head around it sharpish, right? So I--”

“A child’s racquet then?”

“You cheeky fuck,” Dele grinned, and it wasn’t malicious. 

Strangely, it gave Eric the freedom to laugh at Dele because well... _seriously_? Good on you, Hugo for bringing the point home, Eric thought. He’d have to buy him a drink. 

“No, an adult one, thanks. Something beginner’s but not. If this tennis habit sticks, I want to hang on to it for a bit. Also, if I flog it down the road, I want a recognisable name. Something that people won’t go _huh_?”

“Again,” Eric took great pains to point out. “You do get a racquet as a part of the hi--”

“I know, I _know_ ,” Dele turned to Eric, his smirk wry. “Hugo swapped out the child’s racquet for a suitable one. But---I want my own, thanks.”

“Okay. I’d advise that your starter racquet should be under 300 grams, because your strings will add another 30g and we---” at the blank look on Dele’s face, Eric throttled back a whole lot. 

This was going to take a while.

***

“Sweet spot. Grip. Head,” Dele pressed his fingers against his eyes, mood now irritable. “Is this a sport, or tags on _Pornhub_?”

“I--” Eric coughed behind his fist. 

Dele knew Eric used the gesture as a way of disguising his laugh. He’d done it five times in the space of the twenty minutes they’d been here. Tennis was not, nor had ever been his game. 

Football in comparison was an easier sport to get your head around. A ball, and shin pads if you felt that way. Choosing a tennis racquet seemed to require the same exhausting process as buying property. 

“I don’t think---” Eric started, stopped. Did that thing where he clenched his jaw for a second before making a decision. He reached for and took two racquets from their holding racks- one blue and white, one black with white font.

“You know what? I’d go with the Babolat Drive 115 or the Wilson Blade 104. Good starter racquets, won’t give you tennis elbow because they’re so heavy, nor cause you to overly flick your wrist because they’re too light. Here-” and Dele found himself being told to hold one and then the other. Torn between the twin points of annoyance and attraction when Eric grabbed his wrist, _measured his hand_ with a tape measure, whipped out from his pocket, saying something about grips which -

“Ah, so that’s what ‘grip’ means,” Dele finished, holding the black racquet in hand. “Okay.”

“Which one?”

“The Wilson,” Dele decided, because the racquet was black with silver lettering of the brand’s name, and sleek looking. 

“Good choice. That will be one hundred and fifteen euros.”

Dele handed over his card at the till, got his brand new tennis racquet in its complementary sleeve. 

“Enjoy your racquet,” Eric said, handing the card back after the transaction had been processed. “It’s a good brand,” his fingers brushed the sleeve of the racquet briefly, his eyes softening. “My first racquet was a Wilson. Even though I got sponsored by another brand for a bit,” he finished, “I’d always come back to this one.”

The comment offhand, but --

“You never said,” Dele murmured, because tennis had been this odd thing between them. Something Eric did, someone he had _been_ to the exclusion of everything else. He’d never shared his thoughts on mundane things like this in the sport, and Dele had never asked. 

“It’s a racquet, Dele,” Eric lifted his gaze from the sleeve, as he handed the racquet to Dele with both hands.  
“Nothing more, nothing less. I hope you enjoy your purchase. If you need tennis balls,” he pointed to the display of tennis balls in their containers beside the door. “You’re welcome to come back and purchase.”

“Ah, I’ll just buy a pack now, please. How much?” 

This conversation sounded as stilted as the ones he’d been listening to on his _Speak Your Way To Portuguese_ language audio, and just... yeah.  
In Portuguese it might have been, “ _Vou comprar_ blah blah blah _agora, quanto isso custa?_.”  
Or, something along those lines.  
“Four euros. You can grab a pack on the way out.”

Dele whipped out his wallet, placed a five euro note on the counter. Wrapping his fingers around the Euro coin Eric gave him for change. Dropping it in the tip tin on the counter, he took a step back. 

“Thanks, I guess,” he said at last. 

Took another step back. Then two. 

Made to turn to go before he stopped, took two strides towards the register. Eric’s head jerked up as if surprised to see him still here in the shop. Looked at him, eyes wide and blue with surprise, waiting for him to speak. 

Dele thought about it for a minute before he finally obliged. 

“Is it going to be like this between us for the rest of the time I’m here?”

Eric blinked, his eyes shadowed under his brows beetling into a frown. At least, they had the history of each other long enough for Eric to acknowledge the question, and for him to comfortable enough to answer. “I don’t know.”

“That’s... “ Dele shook his head, new racquet slung over his shoulder. “Not an answer.”

“It’s not what you want to hear, I know, ” Eric rolled a stout biro to and fro in between the thumb and index fingers of both hands. The pen there for a customer to fill out the odd form, or for the more old fashioned ones to sign off on their credit cards. “But, it is an answer.”

Nothing to do but nod and say, “Ah.”

“Don’t forget your balls,” Eric sang out, in tones a bit too forcibly cheerful to be considered polite. 

Hah. 

The grid of tennis balls to the right of the door, stacked one on top of the other. Dele looked at Eric, and Eric returned the stare. If Dele grabbed a container of balls at the worst possible angle, causing the rest of the containers to collapse within itself as a house of cards, well.  
At Eric’s gasp of outrage and icy glower, Dele waved at him before sweeping out of the shop. 

“ _Bom dia_.”

***

That exchange not necessarily clearing the air between them, as much as making it more charged. Dele worked on his game in the late mornings with Hugo, finally learning the difference between a volley and a half volley.

He tried to learn Portuguese. 

Preferably listening to the audio in his vehicle when he drove and loitered along the beaches, or idled in traffic getting to said beaches.  
_Fala inglês?_

_Sim, eu falo inglês_

_Ah, bom. O que você gosta de fazer?_

Errr--- “ _Me gustaría---_ shit, wrong language.” _Eu gosto de comprar coisas_

In the evenings, when he returned from the smaller towns nearby- practicing Portuguese with the locals and failing badly - Dele would pull up, kill the engine and sit in his rental for a while. He would listen to the poppy tunes from the local radio station as he thought about how he was going to spend the rest of the night.  
More times than not, he’d see Eric leaving the premises after locking up, his car keys in hand.  
“Dele,” Eric greeted first, because above all things, Eric prided himself on his manners. Dele himself... not so much.  
“Eric,” Dele would respond, getting out of his vehicle, hands slipped in the pockets of his jeans, rocking on his heels, again wondering how he ended up here.


	7. Chapter 7

**Music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/wj1mawj168eimsv/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter6_music.mp3?dl=0) [11.1 MB, 00:24:21]  


**Non-music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/0d7iwvww0z8zu3f/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter6_NoMusic.mp3?dl=0) [9.57 MB, 00:23:51]  


“This isn’t going to go away,” Eric said, letting the mesh fence take his weight, his hands behind his back, fingers snaking through the links, and holding fast. 

Dele didn’t answer immediately, still bouncing the ball against the hard surface of the tennis court. The exercise something of child’s play, the ball compressing and rebounding under the face of the racket, the aim for the bounce of the ball to be smooth, repetitive, and under the player’s control. As in, bouncing parallel, and the student not having to shift his body to catch and accomodate the ball - unless he wanted to. 

For someone who’d just started tennis lessons under the watchful eye of Hugo, Dele had the mind of it. His movements so focused, so sure and unhurried, Eric didn’t know if Dele was listening. 

“We have the next two weeks, four days and seventeen hours,” Eric started, surprised at the words coming out of his mouth. His common sense had been kidnapped in the space of the last few days, as the thought took root, held and refused to let go. Now stood behind a one way mirror looking on, banging its fists against the thick treated glass, screaming at him, _No, Eric! Don’t do this. Piss off to anywhere. Crash by Nora for the week, and don’t forget your antihistamines because of Eloise. She’s a British longhair, it’s fine if you have antihistamines. Just not -- this._

This, them on tennis court number five. 

The mini tennis court, modified for children, in the distinctive blocks of red and blue.  
In the evenings or at other free times, available for rental, Dele, being Dele, had his times paid up until the end of his stay, where he’d mostly practice alone, or with anyone at a loose enough end to take him on. The sun finally set, twilight stealing in around half seven in the evening, enough for the lights along the court to kick in, and flicker on. 

Dele standing on the baseline of the court, going through the drills Hugo had set out for and left him to do. In deference to the heat, clad in short sleeved shirt and tennis shorts, the pockets big enough for spare tennis balls, just in case. Eric himself off the tennis court, leaning against the mesh fence. Hands behind his back, feet crossed at the ankles, trying to project a studied calm. As if this were something he did every week, bargaining with the odd student before getting a leg over.

“It’s a means to pass the time,” Eric pressed on. “We’d get it out of the way. When the time’s up, you leave, and we’re done.”

Dele didn’t say a word, just did a final push at the ball with his tennis racket, making it bounce high enough for him to snatch it from the air with his hand. Did a quick toss above his head, the sweet spot of the racket hitting it, firing it down the middle, hitting within the boundaries of the single’s serve. 

Eric nodded approvingly at the strength, speed and accuracy of the serve. Didn’t say a word about his foot placement. 

“This is...” Dele smirked, balancing the butt of the tennis racket in the palm of his hand, swaying his outstretched arm to and fro to accommodate its wobbliness, his body following suit. “A real strange way of asking me out.” He didn’t even look in Eric’s direction, just over the net where he’d hit the ball. His profile familiar, yet new.

“Probably,” Eric pushed on, common sense now surely tased into unconsciousness and stuffed in a cellar somewhere. “But it beats wondering, and it answers questions we refuse to ask aloud. Unless... you’d like me to send you a message and you can swipe right. Why do that, when we’re already here. Two weeks. No strings attached, and within limits, we can do anything we want. But while we’re involved, there’s no one else.”

“I can do that.”

“Fine.”

A few beats of silence as Dele glanced at his feet, making sure that he was at baseline, and they were positioned correctly. Eric’s eyes followed his movements, partly with the watchful eye of a teacher - front foot pointing towards the right net post, and his left foot parallel to the baseline. Handle check, making sure he held the racket properly, left index finger pointing on the racquet handle. 

“And the strings?”

“Pardon?” Eric frowned, looking at Dele’s racquet. He’d just bought it the other day, what was he on abou-- ah yes, right. 

Dele shot a sharp look at Eric, before flicking the tennis ball into the air with his left hand, tennis racket behind his head, before following through. Eric wincing in anticipation before Dele had even completed the move; the ball a graceless shot of power out of bounds, rattling against the links of the fence in the distance. 

“You’re offering -- “ Dele rubbed at the nape of his neck, eyebrows raised in surprise. “A shag, or the promise of it,” he spun the handle of the racket in his hand with nimble fingers. “And if an offer sounds good to be true, it normally is. So, what is it?”

“I don’t want to know.”

At Dele’s look of surprise, Eric continued, “I don’t want to know why you’re here. What’s going on with your life, or --- anything else about you, really. I. Don’t. Care. And... I don’t want you to ask about mine.”

The quiet between them so deep and profound, Eric heard the rumble of traffic on the road in the distance. The wild noise of the crickets a soundtrack to whatever this was. Dele looked up at the sky for a minute, Eric taking in the line of his throat, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, his lips pressed in a sharp, straight line. Before Eric could catalogue everything, Dele finally spoke, his stare steady, his voice level. 

“Anything else?”

“We keep this quiet between us. No one needs to know. Not Hugo. Not Nora. Not Winks-- nor anyone else.”

“So when it ends--”

“It ends. We go back as we were.”

“Fine,” Dele said finally. 

Eric refused to entertain his disappointment at how easily Dele capitulated. Him swinging his racket to and fro, shifting his weight from trainer clad foot to other trainer clad foot. Eric didn’t say a word, his hands still behind his back, but his feet now uncrossed.  
The complexion of the air between them now charged as Dele stepped closer, the atmosphere between them spiced with the notes of his cologne. His heartbeat kicking up two gears, as Dele dropped his racquet beside Eric’s own foot, freeing his hands before slapping them on each side of Eric’s head. 

They had been here before, after a fashion. 

Eric’s hands behind his back, using a wall as support. 

He’d stand in approximate places, in the many rooms they’d been in over the years, his eyes on Dele, at ease wherever they’d go, or didn’t go.  
Tonight carrying flashes of the past, but marked differences too. 

Dele’s features cast in harsh shadows under the glare of the floodlights. No warmth in the look he sent in Eric’s direction, and it didn’t matter. Didn’t matter when Dele closed the spaces between them, his body pressed against his. Eric’s lips instinctively parting, his eyes sliding shut. A surprise when Dele’s lips weren’t against his, nor his tongue in his mouth, his skin tented and taut with goosebumps at the scrape of teeth against throat to clavicle. Eric’s eyes now squeezed shut, his breathing an echo and reverb in his own ear, Dele’s hands chilled points of pressure on skin. The press of wire criss crossing into his back. 

Some things the same, Dele still knew what made him weak; drawing out the spaces of breath between each touch. Dele’s fingers skimming along his sides, his nose behind the shell of his ear, his lips brushing along the column of Eric’s neck, their bodies flushed against each other. Then- and only then- would Eric’s fists unclench, his fingers tingling from the rush of blood to them, his hands moving from behind his back, and on Dele. _Not yet_. 

The new - such was its absence Eric’s eyes fluttered open. The zephyr of Dele’s breath against his face, but their lips not pressed against each other’s. That trick he’d d ---  
“Dele,” he rasped, his tongue wetting his lower lip. Hating to ask, but unable to stop himself.  
“Just one thing,” Dele said, and Eric narrowed his eyes, steeling himself for rejection, at Dele just calling a halt to whatever they’d just started.  
Dele snide enough to do just that.  
Their faces close enough for Eric to see the sweep of Dele’s lashes, the difference of dark brown iris from black pupil under the floodlights. Eric didn’t answer immediately, his head resting against the diamond wire fence. 

“One. Thing?” 

Eric drew back, dropping his hands from behind his back to his sides, ready to- ready for -whatever. 

“The money is -- unrelated to this.”

“That’s -”

“That’s off the table,” Dele whispered, his breath wafting across Eric’s lips. “Or we end this here.”

It’s a traaaap, the tiny voice of common sense slurred, as if it were just coming around into consciousness. _Eric, don’t-_  
“Fine,” Eric breathed, his eyes never leaving Dele’s face. You had to give to get, right? All negotiations were a tango of mutual benefits and losses. “It’s ... fine.”

Dele’s flinty smirk might have gotten him smacked on another day. 

Not now, the argument settled, Dele’s forefinger and thumb pressed against his throat. The first skim of lips off centre, enough for it to be almost a kiss, but not. Dele’s skin against his strange enough for him to gasp at the shock of new flesh, but the way their noses rubbed each other’s dipped into the wellspring of memory.  
The second press of lips, chaste. 

The third, a hint of tongue. 

“I’ve always forgotten,” Dele murmured against his lips, “how shy you were.”  
Eric laughed, the line so shopworn from use between them, he could feel the threads of it, knowing but still caught off guard at the next move. The sweep of tongue into his open mouth, a hand on his throat, thumb rubbing against his jaw. Eric yielding to this, the sensation of being eaten by kisses. 

On a groan, Eric pressed forward, his hands on Dele. Swept along by the sheer lust of it, his hands in motion and on _him_. Hands tugging at the hem of Dele’s shirt. The next kiss, humid and _hot_ , their lips might have fused together for a nano second. Eric knew, that this - was a bad idea. Each touch and kiss -- his thoughts scattering like leaves in a stiff draught as Dele slipped his hand into the front of Eric’s shorts, palming his cock, causing Eric’s eyes to fly open. 

“N-no-”

“No?”

Eric the aggressor now, his palm flushed against Dele’s cheek, taking control of the kiss this time. Made it wet and deep, their tongues sliding against each other. Showed he remembered what made Dele moan, because he liked being touched, a long stroke along his spine. When they broke apart for air, he explained between heaving breaths. “Not here, on the tennis courts.”  
“CCTV?”  
Eric shook his head, marvelling at his ability to think in complete sentences with Dele’s hand on him. “Take me --” he sighed as Dele leaned in, stole another kiss. “Hmm...your room.”

Dele did Eric’s bidding, after a fashion. 

Spent the first five minutes pressed against the door, their clothes shucked off, touches and tongues and mouths tasting salt and skin. The room cast in shadows, ambient light from the floodlights of the tennis courts outside casting their surroundings into tea tinged tones. The muted ambience enough for him to see just about _everything_ , as he pressed Eric against the mattress.

“Ow.”  
“Ow?” Dele repeated. 

Eric slipped a hand under himself and came up with Dele’s phone. His face contorted in lines of _wtf, really, Dele?_

“I’ll, erm... take that,” Dele laughed, grabbing it from Eric’s fingers, waving it in the general direction of the night stand. Unresisting as Eric threw an arm around his neck, dragging him down. They shared another kiss this time, fizzing with laughter and need. In the far margins of his mind, he heard his phone crashing to the floor with a thump. 

Later. He’d deal with that-

Later.

Now, his hands on Eric, Eric himself twisting and writhing under him. Not to get away, not as much as to offer his body to Dele bit by bit. No, Eric wasn’t shy, had never been, not as much as he liked being _coaxed_. 

Kisses already making him softer, more... pliant. 

The air already thickening with the heat and sweat from their bodies. Eric’s huff of breath against his mouth, as Dele stroked the sides of his torso and under his armpits, and -- he was still ticklish-- good to know. Easier to brush against his lips, to mouth along the furred line of jaw. 

Eric older, but still-- Eric. Strong lines, a defined core, although not as cut as before. His hands calloused - but no less enticing as they dragged along his own skin, cupping his rigid cock, the pleasure of the action dragging Dele from his own path.  
“Eric--” he hissed as if in pain, but Eric didn’t stop. 

_Ssssh_ , and it was no hardship to kiss and be kissed, to taste the faint tang of wine on Eric’s tongue, and him. Dele’s eyes sliding closed against the intense kick of Eric’s calloused fingers on him, stroking harder, faster. Light headed from all the blood rushing south to his groin. His chest tight, breathing thready, Eric dragging him to the edge, only to stop. Half mad from the urge for Eric to go _on_ , he pushed the matter, sliding his hands between them, over Eric’s own. His breath catching in his throat as Eric nipped at his lower lip, kissed him again. Dele’s only thought, _Fuck, yes._

***

_Now that_ , a voice in Eric’s head as he came to, body and blood now cooled. _That, was a stupid idea._

He knew that, dragging himself from the shared bed, pushing a sleeping Dele’s hand off his chest, his feet swinging from the bed and hitting the ground.  
Not surprised at a firm grip on his wrist. 

“Where are you --mmm... going?” Dele murmured, eyes still closed. 

“I--"

“Stay.”

After a long moment, Eric shook his wrist free from Dele’s lax grip. “I will be back,” he murmured. “I just need-” only to be interrupted by a soft huff of breath as Dele tumbled into sleep again. He stumbled on, kicking at the discarded clothing strewn across the floor, sliding into the postage stamp sized en suite bathroom, leaning against the door for a minute, pressing the broad, square switch on by the door. After a few breaths, he crossed to the basin, rubbing the bar of soap in his hands moistened by water, smearing the foam from hands to forearms, his skin sticky and tacky from sweat and come. Catching his face in the small mirror, the voice tentative and concerned in the corner of his mind. _What would Nora say?_

Eric knew what she’d say, or not say. She’d have buried her face in her palms, fingers rubbing against her temples shaking her head at the oddness of it. Of them. Opening the tap, the water sluiced through the creamy foam, the thin white scar by his wrist coming to the fore. He hated this scar, because looking at it made him trip into memory.

***

**Five years ago**

“How’s your wrist?” Nora asked two weeks later, over cake and coffee. Eric in London for appointments with doctors and sponsors and Nora. 

“It is,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. Starbucks had stretched their influence from the USA to Europe, gained a foothold in London. He didn’t like their coffee much, being used to the stronger and less burnt offerings of Portuguese coffee while growing up. But, any port in a storm, and he liked Nora, a working relationship that spun out into a warm, true friendship. Also, he quite liked the background activity in Starbucks. The white noise hiss of the machines as they steamed milk for lattes, the chime of cashiers, the hum of conversations, teenagers laughing at each other over thick mugs of hot chocolate. 

“It’s healing,” he continued, “six weeks, and I can start physio. The doctor thinks it _should_ be fine, but he’s asked me to stop by for x-rays and another consult.”  
“Hopefully you’ll be back on centre court soon.”

“Yeah,” Eric brooded, sipping at his coffee. “It’s hard getting sponsors to stay on side if you don’t play.” Not to mention every time he took a medical break to recuperate and get back up to speed, he hemorrhaged points which yanked him down geological layers of tennis rankings. Which ended up affecting his sponsorship, which then impacted on his training and career, but he couldn’t think about that now. Recovery demanded as much concentration as training did. 

“Ah, Eric. That’s part and parcel of your work, lad,” she sent him a look over her coffee. 

Even though today was Saturday, Nora still dressed as if she’d been in work mode. White blouse closed at her neck with tiny pearl buttons, dark fitted skirt and high heels. By her crossed ankles, stood a small white bag with a simply striking red font.  
Nora’s eyes must have followed his gaze, because she said, “Finally. It’s a gift for you.”  
Eric frowned. It wasn’t his birthday, and it sure as hell wasn’t Christmas.  
His ATP ranking freefalling, and they weren’t the sort to buy things for each other ‘just because’--- 

“It’s not from me,” she leaned down, hooking the braided strap around her fingers, before scooping it up and placing it on the table. 

“Ohhh -- kay,” he grabbed at the small package, pushed aside the red tissue paper, before getting into a box with --- he pulled it out and -- “SUPREME SPITFIRE CLASSIC WHEELS. RED,” he read, before opening the flap of the box and yes, as what it said on the tin. White hard rubber wheels with a distinctive swirled red and black pattern.

“I--” he frowned, before the memory came back to him, and he laughed. “Oh my God,” he breathed, looked at one of the wheels closely. Without the skateboard and the lugs, the wheels by themselves looked like small, hard, white doughnuts. 

“You told Dele you ... skateboard?”

“I didn’t disabuse him of it,” Eric admitted. “But---” he shook his head, turning a wheel in his hand, because this gift was weirdly thoughtful. 

“That’s Dele for you,” Nora bit into her muffin, which was a no no for Eric’s diet, so he stuck with coffee and a bit of creamer instead. “He’s... savvy. He’ll get far.”

“Ah. What does he do?”

“Representing players --he’s building his clientele as a football agent. It helps that he has an in. He started off life representing a friend, and has been building on that.”

“Oh?” Not that Eric didn’t follow football - he did- but tennis was his vocation, and he had his own goals to be aiming for. 

“Hmm hmm,” Nora nodded, chewing on her muffin, sipping her coffee. 

“You like him,” Eric realised. 

“Yeah, I do. Not in the ways of the cougar, before you even go _there_ ,” she licked off melted chocolate from her forefinger. “He works like a Trojan, and seems to know what he’s about. That’s ...nice.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/7hq7esyv58ud63f/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter7_music.mp3?dl=0) [21.8 MB, 00:44:38]  


**Non-music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/rffz7t7qy6f9a6i/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter7_NoMusic.mp3?dl=0) [16.5 MB, 00:44:07]  


Eric swung off the main road, and for the first few moments, Dele wondered where he was. They’d just passed an industrial building, ugly and boxy. 

Walls with colourful and inventive graffiti, all this, a short stretch of road before a bus stop with teenagers and children alike hopping off the buses, clad in blue jerseys and gold trim. In front of them, he knew what it was. No matter how small, no matter how humble: the lustre and evenness of the green pitch behind the mesh fence, the modest stands across the way, lit by the sun, simultaneously so close and yet so far. 

“We’re going to watch a football match?” Dele shifted forward in his seat, only to be held fast by his seatbelt. His eyes so intent on the scene before him, his fingers fumbled and slipped at its release latch. 

“Eric, I -- this is,” Dele cut himself off, but couldn’t stop himself from grinning in Eric’s direction. 

“Yeah,” Eric said, returning Dele’s smile. “I tried to organise a walking football match for you, because that might be more your speed.”

Dele shot two fingers in Eric’s direction, before turning his attention to the seatbelt, finally getting to grips with the release catch. 

“Stop,” Eric half laughed, the weight of his arm holding him fast, as he grabbed Dele’s wrist. “You were always so impatient, that hasn’t changed,” Eric went on, finally killing the engine, its chundering replaced by the bright voices of supporters who showed up. “Just hold on, will you? We’re early.”

***

Eric was right. They were early. The match slated to begin at four o’clock in the afternoon, and they were early enough to see both teams -- opposing and home - doing warm ups, stretches and a bit of ball work separately.

“This is the _Estádio da Nora_ ,” Eric told him when they were seated in the modest stands about twenty minutes later armed against the heat with soft drinks and fruit. “Home to Ferreiras, the second tier of Portuguese football.”

Curiosity piqued by this information, Dele looked around. For a second tier ground, it seemed really small; only one set of stands where both supporters and away fans sat _together_ and only on one side of the field, instead of the stands surrounding the pitch like in England with comparable League 2 sides. 

“But--” Dele scratched the side of his nose. “We’re in Albufeira.”

Eric shifted his weight in his seat, the look he sent him considering, and somewhat surprised, as if Dele wouldn’t have known where he’d been staying for the past two weeks. 

“Our team,” Eric started after a minute, dragging his gaze from Dele’s eyes to the pitch before them, and Dele followed the track of Eric’s gaze, as he rested the bottle of his drink between his knees, linked his fingers together, slouching in his bucket shaped plastic chair. “The Imortal Albufeira,” he began, smile warm with the affection for the local team. “We play in the Algarve League, which is fourth tier, and semi professional. But they’re away this weekend, and I thought -” he cut himself off, absently scratching at his blonde scruff along his chin and neck with thumb and forefinger. “Like you’d always say, football is football, right?”

Dele now perched on the edge of his seat, his eyes on the pitch as the teams walked out, Ferreiras FC hosting Vizela, a club based in the North of Portugal. Their home colours of yellow and blue - a stunning contrast to Vizela’s red away kit. He slipped his phone from his pocket, and took a picture, capturing the day. 

Again, Eric asked himself, why was he breaking off in the middle of the afternoon to take Dele to a match? To the point of yanking a favour from Serge to cover his lessons for the day. 

It’s not as if he didn’t have an affection for football, you couldn’t spend your formative years in the Iberian peninsula and not _like_ it.  
He’d dabbled in the sport through various local academies, taking a sharp, specialised turn towards tennis at ten. The next sixteen years, he had his face to the whetstone of his craft, and getting it done. You couldn’t follow Champions League matches when you were in Australia on tour, or living in the Bahamas as a base for the American court competitions for a few years, in order to get your feet on the first rungs of professional tennis. 

He hadn’t thought about football in that way for _yonks_ , until Dele had brought it up a couple days before. Never mind that they were sharing the ensuite bathroom, both of them a tight squeeze in its small confines. 

“A football match?” Eric said, around the toothbrush in his mouth. His kit bag balancing precariously on the edge of the basin.

“Yeah,” Dele answered, patting at his damp face with a towel. “I do like watching live football and since I’m here...”

“There’s always Lisbon,” Eric leaned over, spat the blob of toothpaste into the sink, before opening the tap, cupping his hands to catch the running water. “Sporting.”

“I’m ... here?” Dele started, and oh, Eric realised, lifting his head, almost choking on the water in his mouth to rinse the toothpaste out. Their gazes locked on each other’s in the mirror. Both pairs of eyes widening at their individual thoughts hitting them at the same time.  
Oh, he wanted-- 

Before it got any more awkward, Dele saved them from embarrassing themselves. He broke eye contact, reaching past Eric for his own toothbrush standing in its charging dock on the mirror’s shelving. Eric’s eyes following the lean line of Dele’s arm, noting the ink of tattoos drawn on his skin. Still staring at the flex and shift of muscle under sun darkened skin as Dele grasped the brush and pulled back.

“You don’t have to come with. You can give me a number to call, or point me in the general direction, I can take it from there.”

Eric rinsed out his mouth with water, turned the tap closed. Did an about face, his body brushing against Dele’s in the tight space. They’d spent the night in his room --- correction-- they’d spent every night in Dele’s room since that night on the tennis court. What they did here was fun, and theirs. They spent their days separate and elsewhere; Eric here, at his work and Dele--- wherever he went, because Eric didn’t need to know. 

“We don’t have top flight football in this part of the world,” Eric explained. “I --”

“It’s still football, and where you live.”

“Okay,” Eric agreed, because it wouldn’t hurt to get the details and pass them on to him, especially since Dele couldn’t read Portuguese. For the smaller football clubs, a lot of their webpages tended to be all in Portuguese, and they didn’t update in English as quickly as the time sensitivity of matches demanded. “I’ll see what I can do. I can’t make any promises but--”

“That’s fine,” Dele said. 

Eric could have handed the task over to Oliwia - her Portuguese and English were flawless - but he did it himself, scrolling through the various websites in his office over a cup of coffee. For the first time in a long time, taking an interest in the football scene around him and now, they were here. 

The sun hot and piercing overhead, whistles and jeers from the opposing supporters when an Arouca player tripped over, play acting. The hissing from the Arouca away supporters as the referee zipped in the direction of the player, and stood in front of him, his body vibrating as if he came to a sudden stop, like The Roadrunner in those old Warner Bros cartoons. Deliberately, he slipped his hand in his right front shorts pocket and came out with a yellow card. 

On top the other yellow the player managed to get from the referee. Two yellows made a red and --

“Trouble,” Dele muttered, causing Eric to look over.

Oh, Dele had been speaking aloud, and not necessarily to him. His face hidden under the bill of his baseball style cap, his chin propped on his hand. A modern interpretation of Rodin, but instead of him seated naked being deep in thought, he was clothed in light shirt and distressed jeans watching the spectacle unfold in front of them. The players rushed to crowd the referee, their hands making frantic and angry gesticulations, their movements outsized and projecting dramatically as if they were on stage. 

“Almeida is --"

“Talented, but a bit of a shit,” Dele grinned. “He dives too much, and lives for showboating instead of just keeping his game tidy.”

“Yeah,” Eric agreed, “you do come across the odd bits here and there on social media, and hope he works through his difficulties. He has loads of potential.”

“Yeah?” 

“Hmm mmm, it’s a shame, because talent isn’t enough.”

Dele shook his head, his eyes on the field, before angling his head to meet Eric’s gaze. “Tell me about it,” he started ruefully. “I’ve had clients who could have been amazing,” his features softening with thought. “But --” 

“It’s a big thing, but not the only thing,” Eric agreed. “I--” he stopped. Surprised at how easy it was, just sitting here, having an easy conversation - knowing that this is how it started. _No, no more_ , Eric told himself, clenching his fist. To cover that movement, he looked at his watch. The game now in its sixty second minute.  
He turned his head away, looked towards the field, not looking in Dele’s direction for the rest of the game.

***

Three sharp blasts of the referee’s whistle, and the game finished with ugly heckling and boos.  
At the eighty second minute.

“That went well,” Dele said later as they walked towards Eric’s vehicle. A bit past six pm, the days subtly shorter and cooler.  
“Lower league football, it can be ... shocking.”

“Five red cards, four crunches, three yellows --” Dele broke off and laughed. “Abandoned. You couldn’t make it up. I’m sure there’s a football chant in there, somewhere,” and in a joking manner, he started to sing to the tune of _The Twelve Days of Christmas_ : “Six players kicking off, _five red caaaards_. Four yellow cards, three horrible tackles-”

“Two penalty kicks-” Eric chimed in, because, just because.

“And a---Erm...Wait."

“You haven’t thought this through,” Eric observed drily. 

“Wait for it,” Dele grinned, “and -- _an abandoned game on a Saturday_.”

Despite the promise Eric made to himself to be cool and aloof around Dele, he couldn’t stop himself from laughing. 

“Now that is _shocking_.”

“Okay, I’m no Ed Sheeran, but--”

“But?”

“You’re right, I’m terrible,” Dele shook his head, waving off the point as they drew closer to Eric’s vehicle. Eric pointed his fob at it, the heavy, solid _ka thunk_ sound indicating all the doors being unlocked at once. 

“Still,” Dele continued, as they slid into their car seats, “it’s nice to know that you can still be surprised by a game.”

“Yeah,” Eric answered, as he settled behind the wheel of his auto. “You know, it’s football. Every game starts the same. Zero minutes on the clock, preparing for a full ninety and yet...”

Dele slouched in his car seat, his seat belt anchoring his torso to the seat. His features covered by the bill of his hat, looking through the window at the field before him and Eric followed his gaze. Beyond the diamond mesh fence wire, he saw the custodians as they walked around the field inspecting it. They wouldn’t redraw the lines on the field - not now. 

The day already too hot, and the sun too direct. 

The noise of rest of the supporters cheering and jeering at each other good naturedly as they made their way back home, either by bus, foot or car. 

Eric seated, fingers tapping along the steering wheel, his eyes still on the field in front of them. 

“Thanks for doing this,” Dele said at last. “I know you’re busy--”

“I can’t promise you I will do this again,” Eric replied, his voice so cool to the point of wintery, he himself flinched. 

“Understood.”

“Good,” Eric said after a minute. Gave himself the excuse of having to check his mirrors, switched his engine on, before reversing into the small side road, and drove off.

***

Dele whooped, heart stuttering in his throat as he leaned into the hairpin turn, the track zooming past and coming up to meet him. Hands on the wheel between his legs, every bump and jounce ripping through his body like bolts of electricity, crashing over the curb past the two tossers who insisted on drifting along the track.

Mad men. 

Drifting was for the weak minded. 

Punched the throttle pedal, the wheel stuttering in his hands, his whole body alive with this. The echo of the wind roaring in his ears through his helmet, his whole body absorbing every shake and emotion. The sun warm on his arms, his fingers sweat slicked in his gloves. 

He didn’t care, pushing his go kart on, blasting out of the bend. Cut back on the throttle to minimize slip and drift. Stiffened his arms a bit against the oversteer, pushing past two other people, and on the third curve, showed Eric the finger as he flew past. 

Fifteen minutes later, legs wobbly, and helmet off, mopping at his brow, Dele shook his head, remembering how he’d gotten here. 

This morning, in the middle of his toilet, a frantic knock on the door.

“Say yes,” Eric said, as soon as Dele swung his room door open. “Before I change my mind.”

Dele didn’t say a word, just leant against his room door, towel slung over his shoulder, shooting Eric a long, considering look as he took him in. 

Eric in light t-shirt and well lived in jeans standing just outside his door. The early morning sun making everything seem scrubbed fresh and new, including Eric. 

“Say yes to what?” Dele asked, folding his arms. Trying to make his voice as cool as Eric’s had been the other day. Cool enough for them to drift apart for a couple of days, and Dele refusing to seek him out, because he’d been... well, he didn’t need it. 

And now this, Eric rocking up as if... As if Dele would - 

“Please,” Eric said, holding a hand out. “Just say yes.”

“Yes,” Dele had said. 

‘Yes’ had meant being a part of the outing for a group of tennis students who’d finished their time at the school, and were up for a bit of go karting at, “Almancil,” Eric had explained, when they were on the coach that morning. They’d sat in the back, both in jeans and trainers, their knees touching. The chatter of the bus flowing over them and fading into the background. 

“I thought you were busy,” Dele had said after a few minutes. He’d all but given up on looking at the views outside, his eyes on Eric, and only Eric. With his hair spiky from a fresh buzz cut, with dark roots and light tips. His lashes fair and fluttering over his cheeks, his beard the colour of straw in the sunlight. 

“I am,” Eric raised his eyes, looked at Dele. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Fair,” Dele said. 

“I was --” Eric began, his forehead crumpling into a frown, “being a knob yesterday, so...”

“No change there, then.”

The half smirk Eric sent him causing Dele to grin in return. 

Later, when coming back on the bus, tired out by the activities of the day, Dele knocked out by everything, dozing on Eric’s shoulder, breath humid on his neck. Eric didn’t mind. Gathered him close to him, and anchored with an arm. Head resting against the bus window, staring out at the trees and sky whizzing by, but not seeing, only thinking, his mind tripping backwards to five years ago. 

“You can have both? Hugo pointed out with an amused note in his voice, way back then. 

“You can,” Eric agreed, “but it only seems to work with people you have... People who grew up with you,” he finished, sliding his racquets away into their oversized bags on the side of the court. 

Hugo didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. 

As a tennis professional with his nomadic lifestyle, he knew what Eric meant. 

You needed people who fit into your life and changed alongside you. 

Relationships that pruned themselves into the desired shapes like bonsai trees. 

The person having an innate understanding of where they fitted into your schedule, and in certain cases, they travelled with you. Knowing that your needs were the most important, them giving the unceasing, unwavering support. You didn’t have to ask because they already knew and understood their place in your order. 

Dele wasn’t that, and wouldn’t do that. Nor would Eric ask him to, because he had his own life, and this wasn’t serious but... _I want him here._

“It’s fine,” Eric decided at last, shucking off his sweat sodden shirt and reaching for a fresh one. Although it was nine am in the morning, the day already feeling stale and old. Despite the fact that they were relatively north, and cooler than the Algarve. 

They were training for the Setubal open, with a purse of fifteen thousand euros and a chance to rack up points on this tour, to shore up his anemic standing. And Dele wasn’t here. 

Eric sighed. He had had enough to be getting on with. Like trying to shore up the shocking erosion of his tennis career in order to keep sponsors on side and his career viable. Why should he care if Dele was unable to show up?

_Because I miss him._

He raised his head, closed his eyes against the sun, the heat of the day already making his skin dew and eyes sting from the sweat. 

“Have you told him...?” Hugo said in that thoughtful way, “that you wanted him to be here.”

“Dele is busy,” Eric cut Hugo off, dragging his bill cap lower to shade his eyes from the sun, before pushing his shades on his nose. “And so am I.”

Eric coming back into the present, Dele’s breathing deep and rhythmic in sleep, his face flushed. Air from Dele’s nose and mouth warming the column of his neck. 

This was... what they were doing now was stupid. Filling in the time until Dele returned to his work and life and Eric returned to his own affairs. 

For a wild moment, Eric flashed back to the conversation between Dele and himself this morning, hating how Dele understood and accepted the ease of these things, because Eric himself couldn’t. In addition, they had already agreed to terms that Eric had set and - why did he want to change terms now? 

He was busy, Eric told himself. Busy. The terms couldn’t be changed, even if - because he was busy.

***

“Eric isn’t here?”

Dele tugged one of his earphones from his ear, standing on the patio in front of the paved driveway. The woman asking him the question tall, brunette and judging by the sharp vertical line in the middle of her brows, deeply annoyed. She jumped out of her battered Land Rover, arms bare and tanned in short sleeves. Clad in a bright loose top and faded jeans, the only ornament on her person the oversized dark glasses shoved in her hair like an Alice band. 

“I haven’t seen him,” Dele answered, realising he knew the dogs in the back of her vehicle. 

“Ziggy, Bowie, all right?” he held up his hand in a wave, raising his eyebrows when they didn’t respond as perkily as he was used to. 

“Vet shots,” she explained, as he drew closer to the vehicle, his hand splayed against the window, only for Bowie to bark sleepily. “They can’t be avoided. I---- wait.” She turned away, tugging her vibrating phone from the front pocket of her jeans.

“Hello, ah- Eric, _finally!_ ” she snapped, and Dele tried to place her accent, wondering if she were Dutch or German.

“I- yes. Why is your handy ---?” she started, pacing to and fro. She was a tall woman, with dark, heavy waves of hair piled on top of her head like a crown tipped askew. Her eyes a dark blue with faint lines stamped in their corners, her face bare save the berry coloured gloss on her lips. “I -- _ja_ ,” she said after a pause, “I see. Should I bring the dogs by your flat?”

A sarcastic laugh as she pointed out, “I have two very lethargic dogs in my vehicle, Eric, there’s no --- wait.” She drew the phone away from her ear, her gaze sharp and intense on him. 

 

“You.” She pointed at him. “What’s your name?” 

Dele too surprised to say anything but, “Dele. Dele Alli.”

“Ah,” she said with a slow nod, as if she had heard his name before. “You will do. Are you going anywhere at the minute?”

“No.”

“Good,” she said. “You’re on dog duty with me for the next hour.”

“Before I go with you,” Dele pointed out, “I should probably know your name.”

“Probably,” she agreed with a nod. “Caro, Caro Meier. “

***

“Ziggy and Bowie had their shots today,” Caro explained, as she shifted down into third. “Eric should have picked them up, because dogs do well to recover in familiar surroundings. But he’s had his phone off all day.”

“I gathered.”

Caro slid a glance in his direction over her dark glasses, before focusing her attention on the road in front of them. Now slowing down into the gridlock of traffic, teenagers zooming by on their scooters, weaving in and out of traffic. He couldn’t believe it, mid September, and everyone in short sleeves, him included. The skies a bright solid blue, the air still and sluggish even with the windows down and the vehicle in motion. 

Another thing he’d never get used to - the orientation of the passenger seat on the right of the car, the driver’s seat to the left.  
“How long are you staying in the Algarve for, Dele?” Caro asked, her voice tugging at his thoughts. 

“Four weeks,” Dele looked outside, still admiring the bright skies despite the time of year. The ground still parched from lack of rain, although the trees were evergreen and shady. “I’m closing in on week three. Then, I’m back home. You?”

“I live here,” Caro shot him a look over her shades. “Have done so for the past six years. How do you know Eric?”

“We share a solicitor,” Dele answered, glancing over at Ziggy and Bowie in the back seat, heartened to see them curled around each other and sleeping fitfully. “We met at a party of hers and stayed in touch. “

“Hmm,” Caro said, with more interest than you’d think of hearing about someone’s party, but that just was just probably her way. 

“And what brings you here?” she followed up, and Dele frowned, eyes on the scrub and green as traffic cleared and the scenery started to whizz by in a blur of green and brown. 

“Holiday,” he said, and almost believed it.

***

Eric tugged at his collar, staring at the letter and its accompanying proposal on the dining room table.

As if he didn’t have enough to be going on with, walking into Hotel Mar with one proposal, and coming home with quite another.  
Dragging out his phone from his smart trousers, he glided his finger across the screen, unlocked it. Called up his email, tapped out a message, thumb hesitating over the screen before he pressed send. 

_Deus_ , he muttered, shrugging off his jacket, dropping it on the back of the chair behind him. Him in the kitchen of his flat.  
More like a bedsit, but... 

Due to the location of his flat - top floor and about five kilometres from the beach by foot, he’d paid a lot for something so small. 

The views were worth it though- when he was at home at least- the deceptive tranquility of the sea in the distance beyond the whitewashed buildings. Oversized windows allowing in sun and air _everywhere_. 

After grabbing a soft drink from the fridge, he crossed the kitchen, and opened the doors to the patio outside. 

Today, the wind was still. Normally in the distance, you’d see pleasure boats bobbing in the waves, with a wake of spray behind them. Not today. When he --his phone vibrated as it rang against his thigh. 

“Eric, hey, it’s me, Nora,” she said unnecessarily, “I just got your email.”

“Nora,” Eric breathed, “that was quick.”

“I’m having lunch with some clients,” she explained, “they are downstairs vaping outside at the moment. They _still_ can’t get their heads around the non smoking edict indoors- although it’s been in force since two thousand and bloody seven. Anyway, never mind them. Are you okay? What are you thinking about?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll have to see the details, but going by the letter of your email, the offer is attractive.”

“Yes,” Eric agreed, “it is.” 

His eyes snagged on the battered jeep driving slowly on the steep, narrow, cobbled road. Winced as it stopped, reversed and scraped against the high concrete wall to its left. In parts of Portugal, it just never paid to have a nice car. The narrow roads and dodgy drivers had it in for you. 

He also remembered. Caro. She’d called over twenty minutes ago and ---he blinked as Dele tried to open the door on the passenger side, only to be blocked by the wall. 

Eric too far to hear what he shouted across to Caro, but it must have been something funny, because she laughed. Wondered how on God’s green earth they wound up sharing a car together, and realised as they walked around to the back, Caro speaking animatedly, her hands sketching out of the motion of This Is What We’re Going To Do.  
This was about his dogs. 

_Oh God,_ Eric berated himself with a shake of his head, and not for the first time since he got Caro’s call. _I’m such a bad parent_.

“Eric? Eric, are you there?”

“Nora,” Eric shook his head. “Can I call you later? I’ll forward the documents later, okay? I---” he laughed, bordering on hysteria. “Pet crisis, I forgot to pick up Bowie and Ziggy from the vet’s and Caro’s here... with Dele.”

Nora’s shocked laugh reflected Eric’s mood. “Holy-- Dele and Caro--- with your dogs? It sounds like the beginning of a joke,” she continued, warming to the subject. “Two exes and their dogs walk into a bar--”

“ _Nora_ , I have to go.”

“Fine. We’ll speak at the end of the week, okay?”

“Okay,” Eric already disengaged from the conversation, ending the call with a faint, “thanks.”

***

Standing in the building’s lift, holding a doggy stroller with a slightly sleepy Ziggy curled in it, Dele realised why Caro drafted him for a helping hand. Between the steep slope of a narrow road to the apartment complex Eric lived in and two heavy, slightly drugged, softly whimpering labs, she would have had her work cut out for her if she’d been the only one. The small lift hummed and creaked as it slowly inched past the floors of flats, stopping on floor six.

“Why drive all this way for the dogs to be here?” Dele asked, as they pushed their doggie strollers down the hall towards the door number marked 601. “Couldn’t they have stayed in their...” he stopped, trying to remember the word in Portuguese but giving up. “Kennels?”

Caro wiped at her brow, which caused her glasses to tilt askew in the heavy waves of her hair, as they drew up the strollers to the door. 

“I’d like the dogs to be with their owners and in familiar surroundings, ideally. Also, we have new clients and their dogs coming in today. It would just be too stressful for everyone. Besides,” she smiled, disarming him with the simple charm of it, because Caro had been serious business with him from minute one. Having him check over the dogs every five minutes for things like swelling along the jawline, and timed breathing, even stopping half way on the drive to give them water and make them potty. “These are Eric’s dogs, and his responsibility.”

“But they seem to be more by you than him?” Dele realised. He’d seen Ziggy and Bowie a few times on the tennis grounds since staying there, but more times than not, the dogs had been away. 

“Well,” Caro started with a thoughtful drawl, “we are--”

The door opened, interrupting whatever else she was going to say. In the doorway stood Eric, hand on the door knob. Clad in a white button down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Dark dress trousers and smart shoes finished the outfit which told tales of a man who had a meeting with his bank manager, or something else as life changing.  
He’d even managed to slick down his thick shock of wayward hair, his face scrubbed and bright.  
Eric’s gaze bouncing from Dele to Caro, and back to Dele again for a long moment. Then resting on Caro. 

“Eric,” Caro greeted pointedly. “Finally. You switched your phone on.”

“I’m so sorry, Caro,” he apologised, before dropping to his haunches, hands stroking Ziggy’s inky fur. 

Bowie lifted his head, did a sleepy _woof_ , before Eric turned his attention to him, resting his forehead against Bowie’s. “And to you too, Bowie and Ziggy,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of Bowie’s yellow head, his other hand splayed against Ziggy’s black pelt. 

It made for a nice photo from above. 

Without thinking, Dele whipped out his phone from the pocket of his jeans and caught the moment. 

The sun bright shock of Eric’s hair obscuring his face, against the waffle coloured dog, the light catching the dusting of gold hair on Eric’s elbows, making the contrast against the jet of his other dog’s fur. A private, almost sweet snatch of time, definitely not one for Instagram. 

Not now. 

“It is a nice moment,” Caro agreed, although Dele hadn’t spoken. Caro just came across as so efficient, Dele wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d been able to read his mind for the fun of it.

***

Once Ziggy and Bowie were settled in their beds near the doorway of the patio with lots of hugs and a bit of food and drinking water, Eric realised that he had to do the same for his guests as well.

Dele and Caro already seated around the small table in the kitchen slash dining room, their knees almost touching under the table. It didn’t help that Dele and Caro were both tall, and had a metre of leg each. They were already in easy conversation, talking about current events, and the places Dele had already visited in the Algarve under his own steam. Looking at them both, and if he hadn’t had his romantic history with both of them, they’d have come across as a striking couple; their contrasting mannerisms fascinating, Dele’s fluid charm a contrast to Caro’s unyielding directness. 

“I’m no great host like Caro,” Eric apologised, setting out cold cuts of smoked meat, cheese, bread and salad on the small table from his fridge. At least he had the foresight to leave the olive oil and balsamic vinegar out on the table this morning. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Caro tore at a hunk of bread, and sipped at her glass of water between chews. “This can tide me over until I get home.”

“Oh?” Dele asked, “Where do you live?”

“Praxa Antiguo. A village not so far from the tennis academy,” Caro said. “And you?”

“London,” Dele said. “Used to be by Greenwich, but I’m around Finsbury Park now.”

“Oh, I’ve never been there. Not London, but Finsbury Park, I mean.”

“It’s okay,” Dele said, “not the best, not the worst, although it is being gentrified. The next time you’re in London, if you’re up for it, we can meet up, and I’ll show you around.”

“Are you being polite, like the English tend to be, and not mean it. Or do you really mean it?”

“I mean it,” Dele laughed. “Promise. We’ve bonded over poorly dogs and dodgy Algarve traffic.”

Eric coughed around mid chew of his salad. At Dele and Caro’s shared looks of concern in his direction, he waved off their concern, coughing behind his fist. “Bread,” he explained grabbing for his bottle of fruit juice, taking a long sip. “It’s dry.”

“But you’re eating... salad.” Caro pointed out, not one for making a point go by unobserved. 

“This is so weird,” Eric muttered. 

“What is?” Dele asked around the bites of his sandwich he’d made from the ingredients offered. Hearty bread with cheese, smoked meat slices, and salad.

Caro rolled her shoulders, her elbows on the table, her expression hidden by her inter linked fingers over her mouth. 

She raised her eyebrows, her eyes glinting with amusement. “I think,” she said after a minute. “I will go. Do you need a lift back, Dele?”

“No, it’s fine,” Eric cut in, “he can stay here,” he said, pivoting a look towards Dele. “Unless, you want to go?”

Dele shook his head, chewing, “I don’t mind staying,” he said after swallowing another bite of his sandwich. “I’m still eating my lunch, and I haven’t been in this part of the world before.”

“Fine,” she nodded, pushing herself away from the table, and getting to her feet. 

“Do you need any help in taking down the dog strollers?” Dele offered, and she waved off his offer. “No, they’re collapsable. I can do that.”

“No worries, it was nice to meet you,” Dele stood up, holding out his hand for a handshake. As much as the British were exposed to European ways, they didn’t go for _la bise_ , the air kiss on each cheek. The Germans themselves didn’t bother. Caro accepted the handshake, flashed him a smile before turning to Eric. 

“I’ll see you out,” he said. 

Leaving Dele behind to finish his lunch, the collapsable dog strollers under one arm , Eric walked Caro to the door. Didn’t say a word as she turned to him, her back against the door. 

“He’s---” Caro wrinkled her nose, shook her head after a minute. “I think I understand now.” 

Eric opened his mouth and raised his hand to say something, realised that he wouldn’t win. 

“Thanks for dropping off the dogs,” he said, both grateful and deeply embarrassed. 

“I---I didn’t ---” he stopped, puffed a breath. “ Realise that both appointments had been today until--”

Caro waved it off, “It’s okay. They’re here. They should be fine, it’s just routine shots---”

“I know,” Eric said, opening the door. “I know today doesn’t look like it, but ---”

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” Caro said, stepping over the threshold into the passage outside. 

“Do you need help with --?”

“No,” Caro shook her head. With her free hand, she dislodged the shades from her hair and perched them on her nose. “See you soon.”  
Eric closed the door after Caro’s exit. 

Turned around, walked back into the kitchen slash dining room didn’t see Dele there. Did a pivot, only to see Dele seated cross legged in front of the dozing dogs by the doorway near the outside patio.

“They’ll be fine, yeah?” he asked, his hand stroking Ziggy’s side, Ziggy fast asleep and curled around Bowie. Their breathing even and steady. 

“Yeah,” Eric sat on the floor beside him, dress slacks be damned. “Once every three years they get shots for Distemper, Parvovirus, and Hepatitis,” he explained. “They get woozy afterwards, but should be fine tomorrow. I should have been there today but --”

“But?”

Eric shook his head. _No questions, remember?_ he wanted to say. “I was busy,” he answered. 

“Caro--” the look Dele gave him now considering. “You two used to be a thing, right?”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” Dele smirked. “She seems nice, just bossy. That type of bossiness you don’t realise until you’re in her jeep with two snuffling, farting dogs in the back, and you realise --- wow, I don’t even know where Eric lives.”

“It’s never come up,” Eric said, feeling along Bowie’s jaw for swelling with the tips of his fingers, trying to gauge if his boys had any adverse reactions to the shots. They were normally very good, sleeping the shots off overnight until the morning, then wanting a walk by the seaside. However, it took one strange year and one bad reaction to upend everything. 

As Caro would say, new day, new luck. So he wasn’t risking it. 

“No,” Dele gently patted Ziggy’s flank before drawing back. “It hasn’t.”

Eric turned his head to Dele, and strangely, wanted to apologize for hiding this part of his life from him, but didn’t. 

“What do you want to do?” Eric asked finally. 

Dele rolled his shoulders. “I’m fine.”

“But-”

“Eric, it’s fine. We can’t go on a walkabout because you don’t want to leave your dogs alone, which is fair, so...”

“ _So_ ,” Eric repeated, dragging out the word. “I’m sorry. I’m honestly shocking at this ‘being a host’ thing.”  
“For someone who runs a tennis school, that’s hard to believe.”

“I’d offer video games, but I don’t want--” his voice trailed off as he reached over to stroke Bowie’s paw with his thumb. He didn’t want the noise around them, or just even being distracted. For him, the first nights of shots were always the worst. 

“It’s fine,” Dele scrambled to his feet, dusting off the seat of his trousers. He held out a hand, and Eric grabbed at it, hauling himself up.  
“I understand,” Dele continued, eyes warm with sympathy. “ You need to be here for your dogs and everything else is going to be a distraction. Listen, I don’t have to stay,” Dele continued in matter of fact tones. “If you can recommend me a bar to have a drink and the number for a local taxi service, I--”

“I’d like you to,” _and where did that come from?_ “Stay, I mean,” Eric explained, Dele looking at him with a puzzled frown. “I just -- can’t promise you much entertainment.”

“ _Okay..._ ” Dele stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Do you have any board games, then?”  
“Yeah, you can’t live here and not have any. There’s a ludo board outside on the patio. Or if you want to play cards--”

“Uno or bust,” Dele said. 

For the first time today, Eric felt unwound enough to smile. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * [local football teams in albufeira](https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/ShowTopic-g189100-i201-k9871114-Local_football_teams_in_albufeira-Portugal.html)
>   * Walking football is a variant of association football that is aimed at keeping people aged over 50 involved with football if, due to a lack of mobility or for other reason, they are not able to play the traditional game. 
>   * Ludo is a [board game](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ludo_\(board_game\))
> 



	9. Chapter 9

**Music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/owyq8dr3cox6kgl/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter8_music.mp3?dl=0) [8.43 MB, 00:15:23]  


**Non-music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/zdn044rqxdzfjun/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter8_NoMusic.mp3?dl=0) [8.19 MB, 00:14:53]  


“In the height of the season, dogs aren’t allowed on beaches,” Eric explained the next morning, as they parked by a remote beach. 

They’d been driving for a little over thirty minutes, arriving at Praia do Carvalho, one of those beaches along the Algarve that always seemed deserted. Granted, it worked at being secluded; last stop on the bus route, no signs. Steep steps carved out of the stone, taking you through two tunnels from the relatively deserted car park a few kilometres down to the beach. Steep enough for Ziggie and Bowie to have to jump from step to step, their tails curling and wagging around their bodies as they did so carefully. 

They already had their morning walks and toilet before they came this way, a walk along the beach too good to pass up. This beach especially, a crescent of sand carved at the foot of the headland, due to centuries of erosion from being pummeled by the waves, wind and chemical attacks of salt water doing its work when the waves themselves were becalmed. These processes forming the rugged cliffs of multi-hued sandstone which loomed large, protecting the beach like a curved hand would a candle’s flickering flame. 

At a distance from the shore, a stack stood alone in the water, aloof like a sentinel watching the bay. With the brightness of the sun, the stack in shadow, the waves tipped by the light, they danced and glimmered around it. 

“At this time of year,” Eric continued, raising his voice over the restless roar of the crest and ebb of the waves on the shore, “there can be rip tides, and not even surfers come here, it isn’t worth the risk.”

“Ahh,” Dele looked around him, taking in the awesome features of the beach. “Aren’t you risking a lot walking your dogs here?”

“They know the rules,” Eric replied as they walked on. Both of them rolled their jeans to their knees, shoes in hand as they walked along the sand. The squish of the water sodden sand between his toes, strange but not unpleasant. The water splashing, surging around the ankles and calves and not as cold as one would think.

Ahead of them Ziggy and Bowie trotted along, running into the surf, shaking their heads at being splashed on, before running away again.

“They look better.”

“Yeah, thank goodness.”

“Right, just in case they get up to mischief, are there any words I should know?”

“ _Bleib_ for stay,” Eric explained, “and _hier_ -” this he did with a sharp gesture of come, motioning his hand towards his torso. 

At Dele’s sharp look, Eric explained. “The dogs-- Caro trained them and-- it made sense to just continue in the language.”

“Okay,” Dele stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I can try. I will warn you, my German is shocking.”

“The dogs are forgiving,” Eric said, looking out at the sea. This morning beautiful because early September in Portugal wasn’t early September in Britain, the noise and scent of the sea calmed and soothed at the ragged bits of his mind as he reflected on the previous thirty six hours, but somehow got stuck on the last eighteen.

Dele.

Dele with Bowie, Ziggy and himself. 

They’d spend the night playing Uno, and Eric had forgotten what an absolute tosser Dele was when it came to winning.

_“That wild card wasn’t there,” Eric pointed out in suspicious tones._

_“Prove it,” Dele grinned, and Eric couldn’t, so he’d let it go._

But he had the excuse of being distracted with his pets’ well being, he told himself. Not Dele’s sly grins across the dining room table when he won, or the dirty jokes to chivvy him out of his sobre mood. 

Or when he dozed on the sofa, not wanting to disappear into his room, he’d offered Dele his bed instead. 

“I’m stopping here for the night, you can take the bed, ‘s fine,” he yawned behind his hand after conceding defeat to Dele’s winning streak. Eric curled up at the end of the sofa, content to doze off. 

“OK,” Dele sighed agreeably, the edges of his words slurred with sleep, his head a weight on Eric’s shoulder. Eric too sleepy and comfortable to move, much less to push Dele away. “I’ll turn in soon.”

When Eric woke up earlier this morning, blinking against the strength of the sun, puzzled at why his arm couldn’t move and pinned to his body - only to find Dele dozing off against his shoulder. Ziggy and Bowie curled up in their doggy baskets and breathing easily. In the still of the morning, for the first time in a long time, this felt right. 

The feeling lingering even now, as they herded up the dogs up the steps, and made their way to the car in the carpark. Their shoes on, trousers still rolled up at their knees, faces scrubbed by the wind and the sea. As soon as they carrolled the dogs in the back of the Rover, and closed the door, Eric crowded Dele against it.

“Thanks,” Eric said, his hand resting in the space near to Dele’s head, “about last night and --”  
“It’s fine,” Dele sniffled, rubbing his nose with his index finger, “it’s-”

The scene on the beach twenty minutes ago in Eric’s mind like a postcard: Ziggie and Bowie running and around and alongside him on the beach, kicking up sand and froth as the waves crashed and surged around their feet, the air damp and alive with salt and sea mist. The wind tugging at Dele’s clothes, the spray forcing him to throw a hand across his eyes, the scene picture perfect. 

_Don’t_ , Eric wanted to say. _Don’t make a joke about it, please. Not when it means this much to me, and I don’t know why._ He didn’t, because words complicated things. 

He leaned in, his fingers bunching in the fabric of Dele’s shirt. Last night, he’d been too distracted by events of the day to even think about this, but now. Dele just hanging around last night, and playing with his dogs and just being--Dele. 

He nuzzled Dele’s nose with his, their mouths a breath from each other, the moment stretching out, elastic. Eric wondering if he’d read the mood wrong, if--  
He didn’t have to worry, Dele’s arm around his shoulders, his lips on his.  
On a laugh, as they deepened their kiss, Dele’s fingers hooking in the loops of Eric’s jeans, drawing their bodies closer. 

The heat always there between them, but it felt different this time. The faint taste of fruit from the flavoured yoghurt Dele had drank earlier at breakfast. A gasp and shudder as Eric slid his hand under Dele’s shirt, inching towards his hip and--  
The long, loud blare of a horn sudden and noisy enough for them to spring apart, the driver at the wheel in the shared car park showing them the finger.  
“Don’t ignore your dogs in this heat!” she snarled before roaring off in cloud of dust.  
“I...” Eric stammered, because around Dele he was suddenly sixteen again, good to know. His face hot with embarrassment, and him aroused enough for him to turn away and adjust.  
“We should go,” Dele said, brushing by Eric on his way to the passenger side. “I’m hungry.”

***

Dele sat in the passenger seat, holding his hand against his forehead like a visor. What with Caro dog knapping him yesterday, and having an impromptu sleepover by Eric and his dogs, he had left behind his shades, clothes and common sense. Good to know, self. Earlier this morning crowded against the backdoors of Eric’s Land Rover, snogging his brains out.  
Now, they were at _Doradas_ , a restaurant with outside tables. A plus, too, the dogs allowed to be tied up and sit some ways off in the shadow of the steps on the landing, with water bowls nearby.

“Where are we?” Dele asked, taking a sip of sparkling water the waiter had served them a few minutes ago. 

“Benagil, or Lagoua, I think,” Eric said, lifting his gaze from his smartphone. 

The closest thing to silence falling between them, with cars zooming by. The restaurant built into a hill, and you’d have to climb the stairs to sit on the veranda. The view of the sea only a part of the picture, the rest of the view covered by the evergreen bushes you’d see here, with the odd gorge and river. Anyone would’ve have been forgiven for thinking the Algarve was just sea, sun, and scrub, but the land features of the region were quite varied. 

Dele scrolled through his own phone, rolling his eyes at the feature of himself in _The Daily Mail_. Honestly? He found himself choking on his own impotence, in that he couldn’t rage a war against the press. You honestly couldn’t, not with their reach and poisoned pens. With a huff, he slid his own phone in his pocket. Trying to take his mind off things, Dele focused on small talk. 

“I don’t know how you actually can pull yourself away from this view to just... work. The sun, the sky, the sea...” 

“You get used to it.”

“I’d like to find that out for myself, I think.”

“Hmm.”

Dele peered at his menu. He think he knew enough Portuguese to risk it, _peixe_ was fish, right? And no to _polvo_.  
“What do you want?” Eric asked after a while. “I’ll order.”

“Anything --”

The hum and vibration kicked in at the same time. The phone in his pocket juddering against his thigh.

“I-” Dele’s smile slid off his face as he looked at his phone, saw the number. “Sorry,” he waved his phone, “I have to get this.”

Eric waved him off, “It’s fine.” Dele stepped away from the tables to the balcony, resting his elbows along the rail that ran along the porch. “Nora.”

“Dele, how are you?” Nora asked, and it wasn’t false bonhomie. Nora actually _liked_ people, which is why she was good at what she did. 

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“And how’s Portugal?”

Dele looked over at Eric, half annoyed with himself for being slightly hurt when Eric didn’t even look up to see where he was and --“It’s fine,” he said, because it was. He’d agreed to the terms Eric had set, hadn’t he? There was no need to seethe with resentment. “It’s been nice getting away.”

“Right. It’s been a while for you, eh? Tripps and Vorm not counting.” 

Dele tapped at his lips with his index finger. He knew what Nora was getting at. With Tripps and Vorm, four days felt like forty, due the amount of living they crammed into the high days of summer. Which was one of the reasons why he liked doing high intensity holidays with them. After a week of holidays in their company, he was good for six months. 

“Fantastic,” Nora continued, “Ben sends his thanks for not posting anything on Instagram save food and tennis courts. Utterly mundane and absolutely grand. Why don’t you just hire a social media manager for that bit of business, then?”

“Least of the apostles, mate.” 

“I can tell Ben that I’ve done my bit,” Nora went on. “Anyway, progress from my end. I’ve gotten UEFA down to accepting a fine for their new football initiative, but no apology for Woodrow. Unfortunately, with the transfer window being shut, Woodrow is still trying to make you the story, the knob.”

“I saw.”

“You’re on holiday, Dele,” Nora answered, voice firm. “No looking. Still, Woodrow is vile, and not just the whispering campaigns he’s started. I can’t blame you for giving him a slap, his representatives are some of the more revolting people I’ve come across- and I’ve been around.”

“Hmm.”

“The next time, can you just... sue for libel? Less fisticuffs for a start?” Nora continued. “But---stay where you are until there’s a scandal, and then you can return under the cover of said scandal.”

“Erm... as in government?”

“Oh no, that’s just background noise over here at the minute,” Nora said drily. “Wait until a sportsperson screws up terribly and then sneak back in.”

“Not even a celeb?”

“So _démodé_!” Nora laughed. “We’re absolutely shockproof at the minute. You’ll know who and when.”

“You’re such a troll,” Dele shook his head at the comment. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Hmm, okay. Is there enough going on to keep you busy?”

Dele’s eyes shifted to Eric, his head down, his eyes on the phone screen. As the shadow of their waitress fell across the table, Eric looked up, and smiled. His eyes crinkling at the edges, his grin warming his face and - oh hell, Dele thought. He was in trouble, and if truth be told, he’d been in trouble for a while. 

“Dele? Are you there?”

“Sorry, my signal dropped,” he answered, tightening the grip on his handset. “But yes, there’s enough to be going with.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/09ac7qr5d6uvhfm/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter9_music.mp3?dl=0%22) [18.7 MB, 00:37:53]  


**Non-music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/6cyzq1ens6cgwfj/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter9_NoMusic.mp3?dl=0) [14.3 MB, 00:37:23]  


“I think you’re done now,” Hugo said, as he put their racquets away, Dele sat on the bench on the sidelines, mopping at the sweat of his brow with his towel. His head dropping below his shoulders, tugging rapidly at his shirt with his index and middle fingers in order to get some breeze. Hugo had pushed him in the lesson, going from various drills to an actual match, tying together what he’d learnt over the past three weeks. 

“I think-” Dele panted, “you were trying to kill me out there.”

“Ah, you were aware of my cunning plan,” Hugo’s voice danced over the court. Evening, about eight o’ clock, and the rest of the courts empty because of closing time, and -- Dele’s head shot up like a periscope, moving to and fro as he heard the strains of music in the distance. _Music?_

“Hotel Mar,” Hugo explained, “they’re having a pool side party. You’re allowed to go, if you want.”

“What do you mean?”

“As a client of our academy, you’re allowed to use their pool - within reason. In addition, their parties are a part of the fees you pay here.”

“I...” Dele shot Hugo a puzzled look. “Didn’t know this.”

“For an agent, shouldn’t you know about reading the fine print of contract?”

Point. 

Dele had no answer to that. Especially since Winks had handled the entire situation from his end- _even commandeering his passport_ -not trusting Dele to piss off to Ibiza to spend time with Tripps and Vorm. 

Dele stuck his legs out, kicking them up and down as if he were doing a backward freestyle, realising they were probably sound enough to stand on, instead of being knock kneed and trembling like Bambi. 

“Right,” Dele pushed himself off the bench, wincing at how cold and clammy his shirt felt on his torso. His skin now cooling, his breathing and pulse settling to normal levels. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“No,” Hugo shook his head, “our road ends here. You’re at the stage now where you need to just play, and see where enjoyment takes you. You have enough skill to be a decent casual singles player. We are done.”

“Oh,” Dele frowned, reaching down to grab at a towel off the bench. He dabbed at his sweaty brow and the nape of his neck. “Well,” he started, moving towards Hugo who stood across the net, and offered him his hand to shake. “Thanks, it was...” he shook his head with a grin. “Interesting.”

“Speaking of interesting,” Hugo began, his hand gripping Dele’s a smidgeon tighter in the handshake. “Are you and Eric---”

 _Yes_ , Dele wanted to say, _yes, I think so_ , but he didn’t. Aware of the pact he and Eric had made between themselves, he went into default mode. When in doubt, be charming and play dumb. “Eric and I are...?” Dele finished with a puzzled frown.  
Hugo let his hand fall. “Nothing,” he half laughed, waving off the thought. “Nothing at all.”

****

**Hotel Mar**

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dele asked Eric over the music and chatter. 

“Tell you what?” 

“About the fact I’d be able to use the pool, and these--” Dele took a step to the side, allowing a group of ladies to pass him by. 

Around them, the party in full swing. An older crowd, because at this time of year, most teens and college coeds already back at school. As a result, the deejay played slightly dated techno; the songs good natured and sweet. The bouncy beats a soundtrack to the evening, an uptempo electronic beat making him tap a foot to the beat of it. A jolly mashup of ska with latin American beats clawing through a dance beat causing people to move to the tune. Everything making the window of time super chilled: the age of the crowd, the relaxed mood, the time of year and the place of _now_ , a moment passing, yet enduring. 

Eric and Dele leaning against the stout, wooden rail that separated the pool from the rest of the hotel’s grounds and lodgings. Dele’s first time here, and he had the impression of palm trees of different heights, shadows thrown against the tinted purples and pinks of the sky. Gazebos where people sat and talked, a mixture of European languages hitting his ear. The air tinged with the odors of roasted meat and fish on the grill, and the sweet scent of alcohol and fruity drinks its own distinct perfume. 

Although it was a pool party, everyone dressed relatively smartly, according to the dictates of the hotel’s policy. Dele himself deciding on jeans and a light short sleeved shirt, and had the feeling that he’d been allowed in because his sneakers were smart black Balenciagas with a flourescent yellow sole. 

“Aren’t you an agent?” Eric frowned over his beer. “Shouldn’t you--”

“Know enough to read the small print?” Dele thought he’d save Eric the trouble. 

Eric grinned with the loopiness of the slightly drunk. “Winks has always been the details man in your partnership,” he observed. “You were always the face and charm, drawing people in. Winks makes them...safe.”

“Hmm,” Dele responded, tugging the beer from Eric’s lax fingers as he took a mouthful, the beer a cool, crisp fizz of liquid in his mouth. He wasn’t surprised Winks had an admirer in Eric, the warm respect between them had always been mutual. 

“How is Harry, anyway?”

“Which one?”

“Oh yeah,” Eric drew the word out, “how many Harrys do you know again?”

“Enough.”

“Right,” Eric nicked the beer from Dele’s loose fingers, taking a swing. “Well, I mean Harry. As in Winks. How is he? I haven’t spoken to him since--” he paused, lifting his eyes to Dele’s. “Since he got in touch about you stopping here, and that was via email.”

“Are you sorry?” Dele asked, “about me being here?”

Eric stared at Dele under lowered lashes for a minute before he spoke. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I just ...” he sighed, eyes sober. “I just... forget, that’s all.”

“Forget?”

The rest of the question lost as Eric closed the distance between their faces, initiating their kiss. Dele responding readily and willingly, Eric’s mouth hot, his lips chilled from the beer. The taste of the hops with lemon on their tongues, and on a moan, Dele slanted his head, deepening the angle of it. Around them the pool party continued, the kicky beats of music in the background, Eric’s hand on his hip, the heat between them going from zero to sixty.  
With Eric’s hands on him and his body against his, it didn’t _feel_ as if he was sorry. His taste and the scent of him filling Dele’s senses like -  
Eric broke away first, taking a step back, the distance allowing the surroundings of music and laughter to rush in. He raked his fingers through his hair, and Dele knew the signs. The wildness in Eric’s eyes when he’d looked at him back then, the twin tugs of lust and sorrow in his face. 

“Don’t you dare.”

“Dele ---”

“Don’t,” Dele repeated. “We’ve been through this before, remember? We know how it ends.” 

“You shouldn’t have come,” Eric shook his head, “I honestly wish you hadn’t.”

The words careless and cutting, even though Dele had heard them before. Five years ago, he’d been cut off at his knees, but now --- 

The trick to the point of cliché, was never let them see you sweat, never let them see you bleed. 

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Dele turned on his heel and stalked off. 

At least the tennis academy was in walking distance from here.

***

Dele called up Google maps on his phone. Swore long and fluidly when he realised the short distance from the tennis academy -ten minutes by car- was three kilometres on foot. Walking wasn’t alien to him and -- he’d be _fucked_ if he were going to hang around waiting for Eric to take him home.  
Nothing for it, but to start walking, Dele huffed, kicking himself for not having his headphones with him. Listening to music out of the mobile phone speakers wasn’t ideal, especially with the blare of traffic.

Although the skies were inky, the glare of lights kept the dark at bay, the traffic a presence, but not as heaving as it was even up to two weeks ago when he’d just arrived here. What had the hell had he been playing at, coming here? He’d have have been better suited fighting a libel case and righting professional wrongs, instead of coming here to keep his head down at a tennis academy. Tennis. Dele sucked the spit from his teeth with rancour. Given what happened five years ago, he should be running away from any tennis courts than running towards them. 

**Five years ago, Wimbledon**

Before today, Dele had never been to a tennis match in his life.

For him, doing Wimbledon the equivalent of handing a kid who grew up skateboarding everywhere, only to be given a Harley Davidson as his first bike. Handing over his ticket to the gent at the entrance, he strode into the tidy grounds of lush greenery, tugging at the hem on his jacket of his light blazer. Wimbledon had been a hard nut to crack in terms of getting tickets. He hadn’t been eligible for the ballot, but had had too much business on the south coast of England to even think about queueing at six a.m. in a bloody tent for thirty six hours before the event. 

Two days before the match, he’d made up his mind, deciding to go the way of various hospitality companies and their services. Dele charged the whole lot to his credit card, wincing because he knew the balance would sting at the end of the month. 

“You’re into tennis now?” Josh teased looking up from his laptop when Dele opened the parcel from the UPS man, their distinct patterns on the envelope. 

“Probably?” Dele said, grabbing at the tab and ripping the top of the envelope open. 

“Don’t tease,” Winks scolded Josh with a wag of the finger. 

All three in the small, cramped apartment that doubled as their office. Winks and Dele shared a flat, Joshua coming all the way from Enfield to do general administrative duties for a couple of days a week. This included - but not limited to- filing and data entry, which he was doing now, around their small dining room table.  
“I think it’s nice,” Winks smiled at his friend, “that you’re finally showing some interest.”

Dele lifted his head, frowned. “I’ve always been interested in ---sports. Not to put too fine a point of it, but... this is my job?” 

Winks laughed, “Sure. Football. UFC. Snooker- and when Tripps is over here- darts. I don’t think you’d know the difference between a forehand and a groundstroke, to be fair.”

Dele had not had this feeling in a long time, to the point where he didn’t recognise it at first. The sort of emotion that caused his face to flush, to pin the smile awkwardly to his face. 

Before he had the chance to joke his way out of the situation, Winks held up a hand. “Nah, mate, it’s great. I’m glad that you’re making time to see Eric play. Although... why didn’t you ask him for tickets?”

“That’s...” Dele said, motioning Winks to scoot over on the tiny sofa. 

Winks wasn’t a big lad, Dele the living embodiment of Jack Sprat, and yet, they were crammed close enough for their shoulders to touch. 

“I don’t know,” he finally sighed. “Eric... he lives and breathes tennis to the point of obsession, and I _understand_.He gets hurt, he rehabs and he’s all game. Sometimes... ” Dele stared at the glossy tickets in his hand with details of the seat number and the date. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’m a distraction,” he laughed without mirth, his chest tight. “Like the kind we warn the lads against, you know? Eyes on the prize. No distractions. This is all you have, everything else is noise.”

Winks finally looked up from his laptop screen. “And what do you think?”

“Winks--”

“Come on,” Winks shifted his torso, rolling into Dele’s shoulder, getting into Dele’s face.“No faffing around, now. You must know. Are you a distraction? Are you noise?”

Dele sighed, looking at the ticket in his hand. The feeling of doubt so unfamiliar to him, he had to think about it for a minute. “I don’t know. I guess... I’ll find out.”

Now, he followed the crowds to the seats in the court. Reading his tickets, he realised a few things. The powers that be were serious about smart casual in specific ticketed areas. NO ripped jeans, no shirts with logos, no T-shirts, no caps. However, please come prepared for the weather, rain, or shine. No visible tattoos allowed, so he opted for a long sleeved shirt paired with smart slacks, and a blazer slung over his free arm. At least they didn’t give him grief about his Zanottis, they were smart enough and dark enough to pass muster. 

His adventure had more even more surprises in store. 

‘Centre court’, he came to realise, was the main court where the stars of the sport played. Wimbledon also had eighteen more courts to be going on with, but only two - centre court and court one - were used for the main competition over the two weeks.  
Wimbledon at its best when the English summer showed up. The courts with that distinct grass green hue that glowed in the light of rare, sun filled English days. The courts immaculate before they became tatty and worn from the rigours of competition from the -- Dele peered at his telephone, looking at the diagram of the tennis court -- oh, _baseline_. 

Slipping his cap over and his shades on his face, to guard against the sun’s glare, Dele crossed his arms and waited.  
Tennis wasn’t his game, but he found the rituals interesting. The inspection of the court by the officials with ruler and gloves before they gave their ok. The ball boys and girls in their sleek navy uniforms perched on their marks along the sides of the court, their features shaded by bill caps to keep out the sun. The umpire seated in the high chair with its special microphone just below chest height. 

Around him, the crowd twittered and murmured, people breaking out their fans to cool themselves down. Either made from the programmes they bought on site to actual Spanish fans people might have bought on holiday from _El Corte Inglés_ , he supposed. A few people had little battery operated ones buzzing away in his ear. 

“Please welcome our competitors ---” the announcer began, her voice low and modulated over the tannoy. 

The audience clapped as if they were in a golfing gallery, subdued and delicate, no noises from their pursed lips. The discreet clap of hands a soundtrack to the competitors walked out, their heads up and straight, their bulky tennis bags slung on their shoulders, as they stopped to greet the umpire before going to their separate benches. 

Racquets slipping from unzipped cases into fists, the players stepped onto the court to warm up.  
A few groundstrokes back and forth, an easy to and fro of the ball bouncing from racquet to racquet. Eric shuffling two steps back, and his competitor, Dele glanced at the programme in his hand - Toby Alderweireld- taking a few steps forward, the ball coming into play again. Now, that was weird, like Manchester United and Liverpool having a kickabout five minutes before the whistle blew, and the match actually beginning after the kickabout with teams lining up and passing each other exchanging hand slaps. 

Wimbledon with its grass courts also had another tradition. Its competitors clad in all white, from visors all the way to trainers. Eric no different. His fringe held off his face and in place by his headband. His features set with concentration, him in his own world.

***

“Advantage - Alderweireld.”

The match _on_ and in progress. 

Winks had been right about Dele not knowing his backhand from his ground stroke. He didn’t even know how the scoring went, in truth. Fifteen, thirty, forty and game point? Why two values of fifteen and then forty?

Love thirty and the server get two tries at bat- no- serve? 

Not for the first time, Dele wished Winks had been here to see him through things, but Winks had his own life to be getting on with. “No can do. High tea with me nan, mate,” he’d said solemnly. “If I miss it, she’ll kill me.”

Right, this game. 

From his limited contact with the game, he knew Eric had the basics demanded of the game and some. 

He was quick and agile, strong and smart, but watching him play against fifth ranked Toby Alderweireld, his shortcomings were thrown up in stark relief. Alderweireld a beast of a player; a shade taller, quicker, with a lot more game management and strategy. Alderweireld a player who had the answer for every challenge.  
Going by the murmurs around him, as the players traded the sides of the court, Eric’s scores weren’t good. Looking at the bookies’ odds beforehand Alderweireld had been odds on to win, no contest. Eric longshot odds on being victorious, but Dele placed a fiver on him anyway via an app on courtside. 

Next set. 

“Come on, Eric,” Dele whispered from behind his fist, tapping his foot in agitation, because Wimbledon demanded quiet and muted reactions to the matches until they were done. 

The sharp pops of tennis ball as it fired from racquet face to racquet face, a rally that went on for an age. Shots to baseline, covered. Diagonal shot fired, returned. Back and forth shots for a minute, before Alderweireld fired one down the middle. Eric’s racquet out, an extension of his form, a sharp return, his head over shoulder, face partially hidden by his arm. 

Return. 

Startled gasps and thickening murmurs from the crowd indicating that the people here hadn’t expected much of a contest, and were thrilled to bits being proved wrong.  
Dele clenched his fists, his nails digging into his the palms. He didn’t understand the game, no, but he wasn’t immune to the physical _expression_ of it. 

He clapped when everyone else did, cheering on as Eric landed an ace. 

Drew a sharp breath when Alderweireld broke a serve. 

Exasperated with Eric letting his lead slip, going from almost game point to Alderweireld snatching the set. 

Eric dragging at his sweat slicked forehead, before taking his stance back at baseline. His stare cold and defiant in the face of Alderweireld’s serve. 

At times, the players seemed to glide over the green, their shadows lengthening on the grass as the game slipped into hour three. Eric’s face flushed as he sat down, at the end of a set. Mopping at his brow with the distinct purple and optic yellow oversized branded Wimbledon towel. His back straight, his chin lifted, his eyes staring straight ahead into nothingness. 

Announcer called for time, a new set to begin. 

Toby Alderweireld and Eric Dier claiming one set each. 

Eric’s serve, the ball tossed upwards, racquet connecting with it, the force turning the ball into a mini missile. Alderweireld chasing it down, connected, returned. Eric pushed off the balls of his feet to lunge for it - 

Dele leaning forward, fists pressed in his lap. Taking in the jerk and stutter of Eric’s steps. The split second of surprise before Eric grimaced, falling to one knee on centre court. 

The intake of breath around the stands as one and so audible, the umpire leaded forward in her high chair, with the plummy tones of, “Quiet, please.”

 _Oh, oh,_. Dele had been around enough sportsmen in his life to know what a pulled up hamstring looked like. 

Knew it when Eric turned his face into the crook of his elbow, his racquet off to the side. Saw what he supposed were physios as they briskly ran to his side, Eric’s face contorted in pain, his eyes glassy with tears. 

Down with injury.

Withdrawn from the match, injured.

***

Dele sent a text to Eric that same evening. He managed players, so he knew the routine. A short text of commiserations, and the offer of an ear if the player wanted it. Most players had their own circle of friends and family for them to lick their wounds, and seek comfort. Eric was no different.

Eric didn’t answer. 

Another text sent. 

Still no answer. 

Three days later, Nora sent word. _Please stop by, if you can,_ she’d said. The three words having the blast of a fire alarm in the silence of a library, because Nora had always refused to be drawn on what she thought about the idea of them both.

***

“Why are you here?” Eric asked in such acerbic tones, Dele found himself at a loss for words.  
Due to Eric’s injury, he’d stopped at Nora’s to recover enough before flying out to Portugal. Right now, Eric seated in an oversized cosy chair, his foot propped on a hassock. The dull, metallic gleam of the crutches perched on the its armrest. Late midsummer afternoon, early evening, still bright enough for the sun to stream through the windows and fall just shy of the chair Eric now seated in.

“I thought,” Dele stopped on the threshold of the living room, leaning against the door frame. “I’d stop by and say hi.”

Eric rubbed at the scruff of his jaw, his form swaddled in oversized hoodie and - shorts. His eyes slightly swollen and pinkened, as he’d been either punched or crying.  
“Hi,” Eric waved half heartedly before turning his attention to the window. Nora lived in Chiswick, her windows opening up and out to a local park, where you saw children playing on swing sets and cycling on brightly coloured bicycles in the distance. 

“Eric...”  
Eric reached for his crutches. The fully adjustable ones that hit the elbow. Eric’s movements clumsy, and sluggish, but Dele didn’t move, or offer to help because he knew Eric would have refused. Sports men tended to fiercely proud. 

Eric pulled himself up to his feet slowly, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he grimaced. Standing for a moment as he got his feet under him, his cheeks puffing out a breath. His face flushed and sheened with sweat from the effort of grappling with the physics of his own body with the awkwardness of the crutches.  
One step and hop. 

A breath, another step and hop. 

Unwilling and unable to wait for Eric to struggle and shuffle towards him, Dele pushed himself from the door frame. 

An open arm to grab for Eric, to give him a half hug. Surprised when Eric returned the embrace, and _clung_ to Dele with both arms, clutches clattering to the ground around them. His breathing harsh and broken in Dele’s ear, as if on the verge of sobs. Dele held him a bit closer, Eric’s face hot and damp from effort and sweat.  
They tottered a bit, adjusting to Eric’s lack of centre of gravity. One leg too weak to stand on, the other one strong but still unsteady. 

“I’m sorry,” Dele whispered. 

Eric didn’t answer for a long time. Just tightened his arm around Dele’s shoulder, his nose nuzzling at Dele’s temple, his swallowing audible.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally said in clipped, bitter tones. 

“Eric,” Dele whispered, as they pulled apart, “you don’t mean-” 

Eric shook his head at Dele’s words, his eyes wide and wild. 

They stared at each other for a moment. Outside, the muted roar of cars in the distance, of the high pitched laughter from children on swings.  
In the living room, the tick tock of the Cuckoo clock loud and distinct.  
Dele’s hands still on Eric’s body because Eric still couldn’t stand unaided. Something now different between them, and he couldn’t put his finger on why. 

“Eri-” he began, only to be cut short as Eric pressed his mouth against his. 

Whenever Eric kissed him, Dele could never find it in himself to refuse. Now was no different. His eyes listing closed, his lips parting. Wild and desperate, as if in the midst of a storm, Eric’s mouth open against his, nipping at his lower lip, sucking on his tongue. Dele unable to resist, giving himself over to the _feel_ of it. Eric’s kisses same, yet different. Deeper, longer. _Urgent_. When he pulled away, Dele followed, his turn to be the aggressor, to lick his way into Eric’s mouth. To drag shaky breaths with his hand in his hair, on his cheek. A shudder of breaths between them as they broke for air, their noses rubbing against each other, his pulse racing.  
Eric pushed at his shoulder, half hopped, half shuffled back, cheeks flushed, eyes an unfocused and blurry blue. 

“I--” he said, trying to drop on one knee, the other outstretched, trying to pick up his crutches. Dele brushed away Eric’s apologies, as he dropped to his knees, swooped them up. 

“Thank you,” Eric said, adjusting his hands around the handles, a strange expression flitting across his face. Part sadness part-- something he couldn’t put his hand on. Eric’s sorrow quiet, and more poignant because of it. 

Wanting to comfort him, Dele offered, “I saw you play. I--I thought you were doing well before you ---”

Eric’s brows lifted in surprise, beetled into a frown. “You were--” he started, his hands tightening around the handles of his crutches to the point where his knuckles whitened. “At Wimbledon?”

“Yeah.”

“Christ,” Eric gritted through his teeth, his tones harsh. “You missed Switzerland and everything else, but rocked up to Wimbledon? You... have such bad timing.”

“Oh,” Dele took a step back, not expecting any of this. “You’ve invited me to other matches before -”

“And you never came,” Eric replied. In another time, Eric would have ran his hand through his hair in exasperation. This time, he just lifted a crutch a few centimetres from the floor. “I- I asked you, Dele. I asked and asked and asked- and you never came.” His eyes sheened with emotion, making the blue of them bright and glassy. “So I stopped. Stopped asking. And the _one_ time,” his voice rose and broke. “The one time _you_ rock up ---”

“So... you’re blaming me,” Dele finished, splaying his fingers against his chest. 

“No,” Eric dipped his head, his hair falling over his face, as he leaned heavily on his crutches, awkwardly turning away. 

“Eric.”

“I’m not, you know I’m not.”

“That’s not true,” Dele’s voice came out in a harsh whisper, trembling at the edges. Him torn between having the matter out between them versus leaving it. Eric’s actions put paid to the matter, as he surreptitiously wiped at his cheek with the heel of his hand. The movement causing the crutch to clatter at Eric’s foot. 

Dele moved to pick it up, but Eric stopped him. “No. Don’t. Please.” 

“I- I better go,” Dele slipped his hands in the pockets of his light coat, took a step back, and another one. 

“You probably should.” Eric agreed, and Dele backed away. Taking each step a fraction of a second slower, hoping Eric would tell him to stop. That he’d call his name. When Dele pulled the door closed behind him, hearing it latch into place, he took a minute to collect himself, closing his eyes against the sky.  
Opened them again, found the world and his feelings unchanged. Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he called for a taxi. He wouldn’t wait for it to pick him up here, but at the coffee shop down the road.

***

“Dele!”

Head down, Dele put a bit more hustle into his step. He would have tried his luck calling for a taxi, but he was in transit between hotel and said tennis academy. He didn’t speak the language, and he really wasn’t going to waste time asking, _Você fala inglês?_ . Although most taxi drivers spoke some English in his experience, he would be too mad to sit and fume in a car.  
Swinging away at fingers catching on his arm, Dele handed himself over to his temper. He yanked himself away, spun around to face Eric.  
“ _Don’t_ ,” he hissed, pulling himself away. 

“What are you--?”

“I’m out,” Dele shouted over the roar of wheels on asphalt as taxis roared past. “I’ve overstayed my welcome, obviously.”  
“Dele, I didn’t -”

“No, don’t,” Dele held up a hand, palm facing in the universal signal for stop. “I’m going to assume you mean it this time. Go back and get your ride, Eric.”  
“I will, just... ” Eric made a conciliatory gesture, “come back with me. Please.”

“No,”Dele shook his head, made to move off. “Not anymore.”

“You came at a bad time, Dele,” Eric blurted out. “You’ve always had bad timing.”

In spite of the noise of the traffic and the ambient sounds of life around them, Eric’s words landed like a bomb in an open field. The quiet in their aftermath sharp and painful, to the point of your ears popping, adjusting to the state of non noise.  
Only for a second, before the world came rushing in again with a pop.  
Them on the wide sidewalk, the warmth of the pavement stones underfoot. The air still and mild, but Dele shuddered at the chill which stole through him. 

Dele opened his mouth to speak - horrified when nothing came out. He closed it, cleared his throat and tried again. Wishing he had a savage reply, but he was too tired, and sometimes, you just had to be an adult.  
When in doubt - and with Eric there had always been a doubt- he settled for being frustratingly polite instead. 

“You won’t ever get the chance to say that to me again.” 

“Del-”

Dele flicked on the music option of his phone. The beat tinny due to the size of the speakers.  
Good to know going forward, the soundtrack to _this situation_ would always be Drake’s _One Dance_.  
With a shake of his head, he turned on his heel and stormed away. 

Eric steered his vehicle into the driveway in front of the academy, turned his lights out, his hands on the steering wheel. He looked at his dashboard, the LCD screen saying it was half nine. Still early doors, but his tennis courts closed at nine p.m., Hugo already locked up and gone home for the night. Eric pushed himself out of the vehicle, walked towards the diamond wire of the fence, curled his fingers through and around the wires, looking at the courts in the foreground, silent and glowing under the lights.

_You came at a bad time, Dele. Then and now, you’ve always had bad timing._

Eric rested his head against the wire fence, giving it a half hearted kick with the toe of his trainer. He closed his eyes shaking his head at the memory as the words replayed in his mind, Dele’s face going completely, studiously blank. As soon as the words fell out of his mouth, Eric had been mortified. He hadn’t meant that at all.  
He could only babble excuses afterwards, none of which made sense. When Dele pulled away, Eric let him go, because he had forfeited the right to ask him to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * [Yes, queueing for Wimbledon with your tents is a true thing. But if you want to avoid that, people buy tickets from a broker ](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/europe/united-kingdom/england/london/articles/wimbledon-guide-how-to-get-tickets-where-to-stay-what-to-wear/)
>   * [beginner's guide to Wimbledon. ](https://www.mybucketlistevents.com/the-beginners-guide-to-wimbledon/)
> 



	11. Chapter 11

**Music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/u3i6s063uag1gf9/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter10_music.mp3?dl=0) [25.1 MB, 00:51:49]  


**Non-music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/9a3a6nx7i0x0kjo/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter10_NoMusic.mp3?dl=0) [19.0 MB, 00:51:19]  


“Dele! Long time no see... or, in this case, hear.”

“Tripps,” Dele said, phone at his ear, travel bag and racquet sleeve at his feet, passport in his other hand. He stood in the middle of Faro airport, his eyes scanning the destination and their respective gates on the screens above his eyeline. Currents of people streaming past and and around him like water, as they surged and flowed to their respective checkpoints. Faro airport forever busy, announcements in English and Portuguese about departing flights in the background, and last calls for departures and their respective gates. 

Even though it was approaching dawn- according to his watch- the odd, bright lighting in the airports always made it seem as if it were always late afternoon. Tugging the visor of his cap to shield his eyes from the light, he focused on the voice at the end of the line when Tripps, half surprised asked, “Dele? How-?”

“Sorry it’s short notice, but can I stop by you and Vorm for a couple of days? That’s if --”

“ _Maaaaattttteee_ , of _course_. Always. We haven’t caught up in ages. Just give us a time and a date. When are you arriving?”

Dele looked at his watch. Calculated. “Hopefully, in the next six hours.”

***

**Four hours later: Ibiza international airport**  
“You are _where_?”

“Not in Portugal,” Dele said, dragging his suitcase behind him across the slick tiled floor of the airport, racquet slung over his shoulder. “I have another week’s holiday, Winks. Might as well take advantage, eh?”

“ _Dele_ ,” Winks sighed, “what happened?”

“Not, ‘oh Dele, what have you done?’ ” he asked, surprised.

“I’d have to hear what you’ve done first before passing judgement,” Winks said, voice so accepting and warm, Dele closed his eyes against it for a moment. “You haven’t hit anyone else, have you?”

“Just bad timing,” Dele started, trying to make light of the comment that still stung.

“Oh, _Dele_ , your time keeping has much improved.”

And he couldn’t stop it, his laugh edgy with something spiked and ugly. “Listen, I’m about to flag down a taxi, so--- I’ll speak to you later, yeah?”

“Say hi to Tripps and Vorm for me,” Winks said, his voice cheerful. “Tell them I hope to see them at Ally Pally for the darts in January.”

“Winks-?”

“Also, give Vorm a snog from me nan. I don’t know why, but she fancies him something fierce.”

Winks’s grandmother was a character. Ninety if a day, but in her words, ‘not yet blind or dead.’ Dele loved her to bits, but he’d pass on the kiss for Vorm, thanks.  
“Dele...” Winks started, and for the first time since their conservation, since well- all of this started- his voice halting, and tentative. 

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

“I will be.”

***

“Lad, are you slightly touched in the head?”

“And top of the morning to everyone but _you_ , Nora.” Dele greeted with a poor imitation of her Dublin accent, phone against his face as he looked out the window. The taxi pulling away from the airport, zooming past its buildings and onto the highway, sharpish. The sleek airport surroundings quickly giving way to the scrub of vegetation and the profile of mountains in the distance. 

“Eric said that you just... left. Is ...” she asked in slow, deliberate tones. “Is there anything I should know?”

“No.”

“Dele --”

“Nora, it’s fine. My leaving doesn’t negate the contract, you know that,” Dele looked outside the window. The great thing about Ibiza? You were never too far from the ocean, and even in late September, when the skies in the UK could be leaden and the colour of curdled milk, the skies here in contrast, were always blue and sun filled. The sea ranging from bright aquamarine to the mysterious bands of ultramarine in the far distance. “You can tell Eric our agreement still stands, despite everything. Besides, I’d think that you’d be relieved that this is over."

“Relieved?”  
“You were never comfortable with the idea,” Dele commented, watching the scenery whizzing past. “With...” he finished a thought he’d had about Nora’s attitude towards Eric and himself for a few years. “With us, I think.”

“Dele,” Nora tsked. “Nobody likes you when you’re twenty three. Both of you weren’t ready for each other back then. Especially Eric, he wasn’t --- he honestly wasn’t ready for anyone. That’s no-one’s fault. Just bad timing.”

Silence for a few beats, before Nora broke the stalemate. “Where are you?”

“Where I should have been in the first place.” Dele snapped before clicking off.

***

“You should try and respond to your messages,” Nora said, all of five years ago. The brisk, no nonsense notes of her burr intruding on the the detached state Eric was cocooned in at the minute. The painkillers strong enough to bring the pain to a manageable numbness, but still a discomfort. His leg slightly raised, foot braced on the hassock before him. Eric half seated, half sprawled in the oversized chair. Normally comfortable and welcoming, but today, it felt like a torture chamber.

“No,” Eric briefly closed his eyes, touched the bridge of his nose. His emotions swinging between self directed anger and grief. “I don’t want to,” he rubbed at his eyes with a loosely curled fist. The third day and he was still nearer to tears of frustration rather than composure. 

“You must,” Nora replied, her face hidden by the thick curtain of her hair. The heat of her body and the lemon- ginger scent of her perfume filled his nose as she perched on the armrest. 

“I’m... busy."

“You have to -- Eric, ” she sighed, as he pointedly turned his head away. 

A brief squeeze of his forearm, and Nora moved off, murmuring her goodbyes because she had dinner to make. 

Eric didn’t respond to her warm departure, as he stared out the window, and beyond. 

When Dele strode into the living room, walking on both feet and in rude health, Eric didn’t know how to feel. On one hand, he was happy to see Dele - and how could he not be? Most people had taken him by his word that he wanted to be left alone, but Dele - hadn’t. On the other hand, it _wasn’t fair_ , Dele having enough expression in his walk for it to be a _swagger_ , when Eric couldn’t even stand up straight without _feeling_ it. He roughly rubbed his hands against his cheeks, hating himself for --

“What are you doing here?” he snapped in sharp, jagged tones, loathing everything in his life right at the minute. His injury, his ill mood, the fact that Dele stopped at the threshold, leaning against the door frame, the expression ghosting across his face a mixture of confusion and -- he could never say. 

Eric grabbed for the crutches leaning against the armrest of the chair. On a surge of annoyance and restlessness, he hauled himself up on one crutch. Steadied himself on two. Closed his eyes against the dizziness and immediately felt as if he’d just finished running a marathon. His chest tight, the air his lungs thin, his body clammy with sweat and effort. 

This might have been a bad idea, he realised, but Dele had yet to move and he wanted --

Day three, and he’d learnt enough about the crutches to use his weight and momentum to shift, and lurch forward, like a Zombie in a glitchy video game.  
His eyes never leaving Dele’s face, he continued to inch across the room. His shoulders tight from the _ache_ of supporting his own body weight in an unnatural way. His face drenched with sweat, his breathing a laboured wheeze in his own ears. 

Just a couple more steps, and he’d be half way there, the hard rubber of crutches a dull _thud thud_ on the hardwood floor. His forearms shaking now, his fingers loosening their grip. He opened his mouth, half wanting to ask for help, but being unable to, only for Dele to meet him halfway, and Eric clung. 

Held on until his breathing steadied, his heartbeat slowed. Going from choked sobs to a soft ragged breath. 

“I’m sorry,” Dele whispered, and the sentiment was a soft, sad thing. 

_It really didn’t matter,_ Eric realised, as he pulled himself away. Nothing did, not anymore. Before he gave himself time to think, he grabbed for Dele, getting into his face. None of the ceremony that they’d stood on before. No mute questioning on who would break first, or who would win, by reacting last. Just their lips meeting, and him sinking into this, the slick heat of their mouths. 

The world might have raged around them, and Eric wouldn’t have cared. All his attention focused on the tingle of mint on Dele’s breath, his senses steadied with Dele’s fingers skimming in his hair, and curling on his skull. His heart racing, the white hiss and static in his ears and mind now stilled.  
He pulled away, eyes wide and short of breath, stunned at what just happened. Ready to try and put words to what had changed, only for Dele to speak.  
_Sorry about Wimbledon... You played..._

“Wimbledon --?” Eric repeated, tightening his fingers around the handles of his short crutches. “You--” And the pictures flashed across his eyes unbidden, triggering roiling, gut wrenching sensations. He’d seen the replays on social media, on the sports highlights at the top of the hour. Himself curling up into a ball, his fingers splayed against his hamstring. Felt the scrub of grass rough against his face, the mockery of the sun’s warmth of a kiss against his closed eyelids. Unable to do nothing but curl into his arm, and sob. 

“You said no to everything else, even though I kept asking,” he spat out in bitter tones. The one time Dele rocked up to see him play, this happened. “Y- you--have such bad timing,” Eric finished, his voice sharp, his laugh sarcastic and sharp. Because Dele did, because _this_ \- they wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here, not now - not while he was still fighting to have a career. 

“So... you’re blaming me,” Dele said finally, because he was a lot of things, but dumb wasn’t one of them. 

“No,” Eric’s answer automatic, but he couldn’t look at Dele, because Eric didn’t have the strength to hide his feelings. 

_Yes_.

“Eric.” Dele said, his voice low and tight. Eric closed his eyes, tightened his fingers on the handles of the crutch. 

“I’m not, you know I’m not.”

“ _That’s not true,_ ” Dele pressed, and Eric lifted a hand to wipe at his eyes, everything coming back to him in a rush. Alderweireld batting away everything Eric threw at him with ease. An explosive pop of pain, before toppling to the ground. Seeing before him the abyss of healing, and the steep summit of rehab. In his heart of hearts, he knew that this was _it_ , that he wouldn’t be doing this again. Couldn’t keep running on the treadmill only to slip and fall off. 

Because he couldn’t, and he just - he squeezed his eyes shut against the prickle of tears. It wasn't fair. 

The crutch hit the ground with an almighty clatter, startling them both. 

“Please don’t,” Eric choked on a sob, his arm outstretched in a motion of ‘stop’. He didn't move, because he’d have to face Dele, and he couldn't, not now. 

“I- I’d better go,” Dele said after a minute, his voice small and unsure in the quiet. 

“You probably should.” Eric agreed, unable to say anything else. The abandoned crutch still at his socked feet. He listened to Dele as he took a step back, and another. Didn’t look because he knew Dele would be standing there, waiting for him to look up. To read his body language and react.  
It took everything in Eric not to turn, until he couldn't any more.

“Dele,” he said, finally hobbling in a circle, only to hear the soft click of the front door as Dele drew it closed behind him and before Eric could complete the turn.  
Eric didn't move, resting heavily on one crutch.  
Stared at the closed door for a long time.

***

“You’re finally thinking about selling on?”

Eric didn’t answer immediately. 

He took a long swallow of his wine from the bottle, feeling the weight of liquid in his mouth, chasing the sour memories with notes of oak and berry.  
Tonight, he was out on the patio. All the chairs placed seat first upright on the tables, save his. From the confines of his office, he found a bottle of Monte do Além. He didn’t need a glass, and hadn’t gotten drunk in a while.  
He looked out before and beyond. Not much of a view, with the street lights in the distance and bushes in the foreground. On a good day, you’d see the ocean. 

“Yeah.”

Hugo placed a litre of water on the table beside his bottle of wine, causing Eric to roll his eyes. “You haven’t been happy for some time. It’s never too late to change your life, if you want.”

“I told him,” Eric pressed his fingers against his face and laughed, edging on hysteria. “I told Dele that he had bad timing.”

“It ended terribly between you two the first time around. You expected him to fit into your world, Eric, but never said what you wanted. You just expected him to know, as if he were one of your travelling employees. As if he were Eriksen or even... me.”

“All this time, I’ve blamed _him_ ,” Eric looked up from his hand. “About Wimbledon and everything that came after and --”

“You can apologise, no?”

“No. He left,” Eric said, gently tapping the bottle against the table’s surface. “And I just... “ _let him_

“So what you’re going to do?”

Eric swiped at the wine bottle, and took a long considering drink, pulling the bottle away from his mouth with a pop. “Get drunk as a Lord. Or like an Englishman,” he offered the bottle to Hugo, inviting him to take a swing. “ You wish to join me?”

“No.”

***

Winks liked his job.

Of course, he missed Dele, with his complicated charm and mischief, but he didn’t begrudge Dele his month long holiday at all.  
Although, blimey, Winks thought, stirring a bit of creamer into his coffee as he checked his emails seated at his dining table. To hit Algarve and Ibiza in the space of a month because of dramas? Of _course_ , Dele would.  
Beside his laptop, his toasted halloumi cheese sandwich, with whole wheat bread, watercress and lashings of Worchester sauce and ketchup. Winks took a bite, enjoying the mixed flavour of grain bread with the salty flavour of halloumi and the sweetness of the sauces. He was in the middle of a big chew when his phone rang. 

“Hello?” he said around chews because he recognised the number, switched the call mode to facetime. 

“Winks?”  
“Hey, Eric, mate. It’s been a minute, how can I help? Did the money --?”

“It’s helped, thank you,” Eric sat on the edge of his bed, massaging his temples. The daylight so bright, it was as if it would cauterize his eyelids. At least, he had had the foresight to leave Ziggy and Bowie by Caro, before he decided to indulge in a full English - in his case- this meant getting drunk. 

“You look rough.”

“I... had a bit too much to drink last night.”

“It gets harder as you get older,” Winks said helpfully, before taking a sip of his coffee.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Okay,” Winks answered. He had an interesting voice, Eric had always thought, shot through with a bit of husk in it, as if he’d just woken up. The slight croak in his voice made him sound even friendlier and younger than he looked. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other in person. We should have a coffee or a curry the next time you’re in London.”

“Yeah, we should do. But listen...ah...” and there was no way to do a smooth segue into the information he needed. 

“Do you know where Dele is?”

“Dele? Yeah, why?”

“I --” Eric fell backwards, his back hitting the mattress, his phone still in hand as he stared at the ceiling. “I need to speak to him.”

“You have a phone?” Winks pointed out, ever helpful. 

“In _person_.”

“Erm... I don’t know if that’s a good idea."

“Please,” Eric begged, “I just --- I need to tell him,” he closed his eyes against the glare and pain of sunshine, the words tripping out in a whisper. “ I’m sorry.”

“Eric --”

Eric pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, eyes closed, voice strained. “I have to try.”

“Ohh _kay_ ,” Winks drew the word out, taking his time sipping at his coffee. “I swear though, if I see you two on the news, it better be happy. Or I’ll have to rig a seance and we’ll have words. ”

For someone who looked perennially sixteen, Winks had the gallows humour of a battle hardened cop. 

“He--” Eric started, “he might not even want to speak to me.”

Winks raised an eyebrow, sending a skeptical look at Eric through the tiny screen. “Well then, probably it’s not such a good idea.”

“I have to try. Winks, _please_.”

Winks stroked his chin, looked out in the distance, lost in thought.  
Eric closed his eyes, defeated. In the course of their five year friendship, Winks had given more than he received, and Eric willing to accept that this was probably an ask too far. 

“I’ll text you the address, and smooth the way with Vorm and Tripps,” Winks said, “I’m sure you’ve been to theirs before. With Dele? It’s in Ibiza.”

***

In all the times over the years Dele stayed by Tripps and Vorm, he didn’t know that their villa had access to a communal tennis court. The court conveniently slotted across their villa, fenced off away from everywhere else. Currently in use, it hosted a mixed pairings match, the game fast, and dynamic as mixed doubles tended to be. Interested despite himself, Dele watched the game for a bit, admiring how everyone covered the expanse of the court in the most economical of movements. The ball fizzing back and forth, contained in the boundaries of the court. The laughter of the quartet colouring the air, and for the first time ever, he enjoyed watching a tennis game.

“Has that court has always been here?” he asked, turning away from the action, resting against the safety rail of the balcony. 

“Yeah,” Tripps sent him a look over his ray bans. “Why, do you play?”

Dele never thought he would have been in the position to be coy, to say offhandedly, “Yeah, a little.”

“Amazing,” Tripps grinned, “who knew?”

Six pm, the sun’s rays mild due to the time of year. 

Dele’s arrival coincided with the off season. 

As a result, he’d missed the parties Tripps and Vorm had thrown, and they were already knee deep in plans for next year. Their first stop with Dele as soon as he changed into fresh clothes, was the restaurant _The Fish Shack_ on Talamanca Beach, east of Ibiza town. They sat on shaky plastic chairs, perched on rocks overlooking the clear blue water. Tables and chairs shoved under broad blue parasols, the air dry and hot, the day sunbright, as they ate cheek and jowl with everyone else. The sizzle of plump fish on the grill the background noise to the lively chatter around them, the air scented with the crisp smell of cooked seafood. The language predominantly Spanish, but a lot of the workers and the patrons spoke English as well. 

Dele leaned in, his shoulder pressing against Tripps’, as they picked at their dishes. Sardines crusted with salt, served with slices of lemon and garnished with parsley on the functional fold out tables. This place a far cry from the posh _Es Xarcu_ where you had a prescribed meal, compared to the Fish Shack where you just got served the fish of the day. 

“Not that we’re not happy to have you here,” Vorm said over a plate of grilled swordfish, with a side of tomato and onion salad with roast potatoes, “but what brings you here? I heard you got into a spot of trouble?”

“I -- yeah.”

“Had a bit of argy bargy with a fellow agent,” Tripps snickered behind his hand holding a bottle of Corona with the lemon wedged in its neck, “shocking. What was that about, then?”

“Whispering, trying to gazump my clients... Woodrow has been a knob from time. As you know, our scuffles got around social media, so... I’m here.” 

They didn’t have to know about his missteps in the Algarve, or Eric. 

“How long are you stopping for?” Vorm asked, taking a sip from his wine glass. 

“Until the end of the week. I fly back to London on Sunday. Winks’ been holding the fort but -- I need to get back and get on with things.”

“That’s for the future,” Tripps raised a glass, his grey- green stare warm and on him. “Let’s enjoy today. ¡Salud!”

Dele raised his own bottle of beer, two bottles and Vorm’s wine glass coming together with muted clinks and hearty cheers.

***

“Please,” Eric pressed his hand against the door, bracing it open.

“What are you doing here?” 

If looks could kill, Eric realised he’d have been - at least- heavily mauled. 

Eric had asked himself the same thing back in Portugal. The question nibbling at the edges of his mind as he booked a flight from Faro to Ibiza; made his calls to Vorm and Tripps, only to find that Winks had been true to his word, smoothing the way. After thoroughly sounding out Eric’s intentions, their offer to stay for dinner easily made and readily accepted. The taxi that dropped him off at the bottom of the driveway now long gone, the expression on Dele’s face making Eric wish he had told the taxi to wait.  
He stood at the top of the steps to the front door, the sun’s heat beating around his head and shoulders, but it going unnoticed at the glacial stare Dele sent his way. 

“I---” Eric started, mouth suddenly dry, brain filled with white noise. 

“Hey, Dele, is that Dier?” Tripps’ voice boomed behind him. 

The emotions streaming across Dele’s face plain to see. From moments of shocked betrayal, to anger, before settling into stony acceptance. 

“Yeah,” Dele pulled the door open, allowing Eric to come in. “It is.”

Tripps slipped smoothly between them, giving Eric a handshake and a half hug. The hug slightly awkward, because Tripps - a cashew coloured toadstool of a man- only came up to Eric’s shoulder in height, but made up for it with the strength in his embrace. 

“ _Halo amigo_ ,” Tripps greeted, patting Eric’s cheek with the palm of his hand at the end of an outstretched arm. “How are you?”

Eric couldn’t help but smile in response to Tripps’ warmth. At least, someone was glad to see him. 

“I’ll -- think Vorm needs help in the kitchen,” Dele took two steps back, features still stony. “Excuse me.” 

He turned on his heel and disappeared into one of the exits from the stage of the living space they all shared. Eric stood there, watched him go. 

“Hmmm,” Tripps stroked at the fuzz on his chin. “This is ...difficult.”

“I probably should leave.” Not that Eric expected Dele to greet him with open arms and a cuddle, but --

Tripps shrugged, “You know Dele, he’ll come around. Or if not, he’ll know how to put it away and be on his best behaviour. At least, it’s not the UEFA agents’ dinner, right?”

“Right. Oh,” Eric remembered, shrugging his small backpack off his shoulder. “I didn’t want to come empty handed, so --” he rummaged in the belly of the bag, fished out two bottles of wine. “It’s Monte do Além, from one of the local vineyards in my part of the world.” 

“Mate, this is amazing,” Tripps grinned, delighted by the two bottles of wine. “You didn’t have to.”

Said the guy who offered him a place to stay on the strength of a phone call.

***

Tripps and Vorm (or _Droom_ for music aficionados in the know) lived with their partners and children in Santa Eulária, Ibiza. With Vorm producing and Tripps promoting, they’d started playing music in dodgy clubs, spilling over into party and events planning across all industries, making their rolodex of friends interesting and eclectic. In the season, they did their extended music residences in Ibiza. Outside of the party season, they were wheels up and on the road. In the transitioning of seasons, from Ibiza before venturing out into the rest of the world, they always threw a party for friends before departing.

 _We do like to think of it as a marker for the seasons_ , Eric remembered reading an interview Vorm did once for a snazzy In Flight magazine. _Before the dark months roll in and we go out to work away, it’s our shot of Vitamin C. The friends, the fun and their warmth; we carry the spirit with us through the year in whatever we do_.

You’d have thought the party they hosted at their own Villa might have been wild: lions and accompanying trainers roaming alongside the pool. A Mariachi band playing songs on their roof, serading the attendees with fireworks and glitter bombs. Tattoo artists with guns and ink at the ready to tattoo blast a memory on to skin.  
The party had none of these. 

It wasn’t a sit down dinner, as much as foods placed on tables poolside, for people to serve themselves buffet style. A pile of light blankets presented in an entirely too pretty wicker basket for people to drape around themselves along poolside when the evening breezes got too chilled.  
“I do try and come here _every_ year,” this from Sloan Carmichael, a British cultural essayist Eric read in his downtime on tour once. “It’s lovely, and I’ll never say no to a party,” she finished, sipping at a glass of wine. “And you?” she sent a warm, interested smile in his direction. “ I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before? Is it your first time?”

No. He’d been here once before, with Dele. 

Eric shook his head, not wanting to share the memory. “Yes,” he said.

***

**Ibiza, way back then**

“You’re a ... an agent, right?” Eric asked, swinging his feet to and fro in the pool as he sat poolside, water splashing everywhere.  
“You _have_ an agent, remember?” Dele answered, a sturdy presence beside him. Both of them poolside at Tripps and Vorm’s, the sun so bright and the weather so warm, your bones had the consistency of softened wax.Eric tilted his head back, closing his eyes against the glare of the sun, bracing the weight of his torso on his outstretched arms. 

“Humour me,” he said, enjoying the burn of sun against his closed eyelids. “Every season, I pick up a niggle and go through it, and every other season, I pick up yet _another_ injury that takes time to heal and rehab, for me to get my fitness up. It drags my ATP ranking into hell. I’m actually five hundred and twenty spots lower now than I was two years ago.”

“No athlete is one hundred percent fit. That’s the cliché, right?”

“So they say,” Eric agreed. “Although, we really should be. But -- you aren’t answering the question.”

“It depends on what you want to do. How you feel. No one should make that decision for you, but you.”

Eric opened one eye, looking at Dele, gauging his sincerity. Dele looking out in the distance, his torso dark bronze and gleaming with sunblock. 

“ _My little body's slowly breaking down_ ,” Eric half sang the lyrics from a popular musical. “ _I’m losing speed, strength---- but not style_ ,” he finished on a note of heavy irony. 

“And that is...?” Dele asked, turning to face him. 

“A musical my mum was mad about,” Eric explained dismissively, “C’mon, Dele, advise me.”

Dele pulled a face, expelled a breath. “Do you still love it? Tennis, I mean? Like, can you think about doing anything else at the minute?”

“No. Nothing else,” Eric didn’t have to think. 

“And your body,” Dele started, pressing his index and middle finger against Eric’s thigh. “You’re here because of a bruised hip, a dodgy knee and a bruised toe.”

Eric lifted his foot out of the water, wiggled his toes, and placed it back in. Dele all too aware of the laundry list of injuries Eric had battled with through his career. 

“And?” Eric pressed in quiet tones. “Tell me.” 

Dele threw an arm around Eric’s shoulders, their bodies slick and heated from both sun and sunblock. “I’d say, do it as long as you can, as much as you can. As long as the pain isn’t the only thing you feel, I think. When it gets too hard, as in - beyond what you can give, there’s no shame in walking away.”

Eric sighed, long and deep, briefly pressing his lips against the column of Dele’s neck. Closed his eyes at sun warmed skin under his mouth and scented with the sweet coconut odor of their shared sunblock. 

“I think-- “ his voice trembled, broke. “I’m getting there.”

“No,” Dele said, dropping his arm from Eric’s shoulders. “You have to go to Wimbledon first.”

“I don’t know,” at this, Eric turned to Dele, feeling traitorous to say it, but experiencing every ache, every niggle all at once in this moment. “I... don’t know if I can.”

“Eric--”

“Some days I feel like a million,” he laughed, and it verged on bitter. “And on the others, I am closer to a hundred. In a car crash.”

“You have time, mate,” Dele leaned in, close enough for their faces to touch. “Try and go to Wimbledon if you can. Centre court, the whole nine yards. Promise?”

He couldn’t say no, not when Dele asked so simply and sweetly. It almost turned the throb of pain in his knee down to a twinge. 

“Promise,” Eric feeling strangely better about the whole thing, his arm around Dele’s neck, their faces drawing closer together, their noses touching. The sun and their surroundings making Eric want to risk it all and finally say what he’d been carrying around in his heart all this time. 

“Del, I--”

“Hey, you lot,” shouted Tripps from the opposite side of the pool, his camera ready to shoot. “Say cheese.”  
The moment gone, and Eric let it go, because there’d be other times. 

He threw an arm around Dele’s shoulders, Dele leaning into him, his actions mirroring Eric’s own. Their heads together, both grinning broadly for the camera as they chorused, “Cheese!”

***

The sun slinked into the sea, taking its rich colours of oranges and hot pinks, leaving the dusk of twilight and cool breezes behind.

Dele didn’t mind the breezes, Ibiza’s weather still comfortable enough to wear short sleeves this time of year. The pool heated enough for him to sit on its edge, water up to mid calf as he idly swung his legs to and fro. Looked around his surroundings, smiling a little at Tripps and Vorm flitting from guest to guest like dragonflies in a marsh. Their guests dressed in brights and pastels, their faces lit with smiles when Tripps and Vorm turned their attentions to each of their guests. They worked the crowd perched along the poolside both separately and together. 

Inside, a few of the guests had taken to dancing - the furniture cleared out from the living room - the sleek hardwood floor an improvised club space. Not one to stand for a busman’s holiday, they hired a DJ to spin tunes, of both loved and known songs versus those that had yet to be released. 

Dele would have normally been in the middle of it, dancing with Sloan or Ingrid; friends of Tripps and Vorm who visited the island every year. Or exploring virtual reality, like people lashed to single bed sized planks outside in the driveway, goggles strapped to their faces as they saw and felt themselves travelling down a slide at one hundred miles an hour. Their screams ripped through the air, accompanied with gales of laughter from those looking on. 

Or even in the kitchen with Kim Jung-sik - a chef now holding an impromptu class about fusion food, and how to do great recipes for people with heavily restricted dietary needs in Tripps’ and Vorm’s small kitchen. He knew that because a reporter for _Olive_ magazine posted a teaser on their Instagram earlier this evening.  
No, he was fine out here, and felt fine. 

Relaxed even, when Eric came and sat beside him, in matching shorts and short sleeved shirt. 

“Five minutes,” Eric said. 

Dele didn’t even look in Eric’s direction, his eyes on the sea in the distance. “Fuck off to the far side of fuck and when you get there, kindly fuck off some more.”  
“I will- after five minutes.”

Dele looked at his wrist, realised he had no watch, and his phone was too far to retrieve now. 

As much as mobile companies swore blind in their advertising copies about their phones being robust around water, Dele didn’t dare risk it. He had his life on that bloody thing. 

“Eric,” he huffed, “we’ve had the conversation, didn’t we? And to use an Americanism, _I got told_.”

And he did, didn’t he? 

“It came out wrong,” Eric replied, his voice low, the words tight. “I--”

“How?” Dele turned to him now, wishing he hadn’t, because Eric looked subdued and sad. He really had no right to be, because it was Dele himself he’d left bruised and wondering all those years ago. Only to do it again. “You say I have bad timing, as if- as if I were the only one acting in this story of this or whatever--- as if you didn’t have some sort of say in it too. At every single turn, you could have said, ‘no, this isn’t working for me. I’m sorry,’ Y-you didn’t - even up to the end.”

“Dele---”

He’d heard enough, but the choice was either to throw himself in the water or flounce to his room and sulk like a child. 

“What do you want, Eric? An apology?” Dele cut in, the pitch of his voice raising an octave at every sentence. “ _I’m sorry_. Will that do?” he lashed out, giving over to blind temper. “Sorry for the time I rocked up to Wimbledon to see you play only to withdraw from the match due to injury. Sorry for being bad luck. Sorry for my _bad timing_. Sorry for every time you look at me, and _see_ me, I’m a bloody grade three hamstring tear.”

“Dele --” Eric reached out and Dele held his hands up for Eric to stop. 

“Don’t.” 

If Eric touched him now-- Dele wouldn’t want him to stop, and wasn’t that just deeply lowering and unfair? That after everything --- he wouldn’t have wanted him to stop. Without a by your leave, powered by his anger, Dele pushed himself up from poolside, got to his feet with a splash, water kicking up and dripping everywhere. 

There was something to be said about giving in to your inner child, right? He’d go and throw a strop in a room.

***

“Eric,” and that was Vorm, crouching on one knee beside him. Hand on Eric’s shoulder, his dark skin slicked with sunblock, the air around him smelling like crushed oranges and coconut-mint. “Are you okay?”

Eric nodded mutely, biting his lips, unable to speak for a moment. The pool area now deserted, the party thinning out, the noise winding down. The laughter fading from constant to scattered as people kissed, hugged and bade each other good night.  
He’d remembered Dele telling him a long time ago, that in residential areas, the noise cut off had to be midnight. 

“Yeah,” Eric said after a minute. “I’m fine. I-- “ he raised his gaze to Vorm’s face, his own face heated with embarrassment from making a scene. “You saw that, I gather.” 

“ _Ja_ ,” Vorm spoke perfect English, but when it came to yes or no, he slipped into his native Dutch, using _Ja_ and _Nee_. “Dele’s had a hard time of things recently. I’m assuming you’re one of the hard times?”

Wow, direct to the point of ignoring the low lying fruit of sexual innuendo. 

“I guess so.”

“How are you getting home?”

“I’m supposed to be flying out tonight. The idea was to grab a taxi, and sleep over in the airport until I do? My flight is in--- what time is it?”  
Vorm looked at his watch, its face the size and shape of a hen’s egg. “Half twelve. English time - not Dutch.”

At Eric’s lifted brow, Vorm laughed. “I have English mates, remember?”  
Touché.

“My flight is at--- half one,” Eric yawned behind his hand, shoulders slumped, everything hitting him all at once. “Or is it half two?”

“You’re tired and you’re in no state to travel. We’ve a small guest room downstairs, so you can stop for the night. Besides, everything's better after a bit of sleep.”

“Even this thing with Dele?” Eric murmured brokenly, not expecting an answer, as he looked out past the pool to the sea in the distance. 

“Even this thing with Dele.”

***

“Oh- oh, it’s The Incredible Sulk.”

Dele ignored the comment, his eyes on the screen, his thumbs skimming and punching the controllers. The entertainment _du jour_ -Mario Kart 64 - an old school game console from Nintendo. To feed his gaming jones, Vorm had a small gaming room built in the far end of the villa. The room the size and lighting quality of a broom closet, with small TV and recessed shelving built into the walls. A sofa big enough for two people to squish in in front of the TV and console. 

“Budge up,” and this was Tripps, grabbing at the extra controller as they shared space on the small sofa. Dele did as told, and without prompting, cancelled gameplay and started anew in two player mode. After some thought, flicking over the cast of characters to choose from on the screen, Tripps chose Toadstool. 

“Might as well,” he chuckled, “we’re the same height and size, and-” he patted his high top, “almost the same hair.”

Expecting a talk from Tripps, Dele opted for _Moo Moo Farm_ , a gentle, bucolic course with a wide dirt path, white fences and lowing cows. In two player mode, the screen split, their avatars at the wheel, their vehicles revving in anticipation.The dramatic tones in the bouncy tune indicating countdown. Lakitu on his cloud bearing the traffic lights going from red to amber to green. A flourish of notes as the light turned green and they zoomed off, more practice mode than outright competition. 

“So,” Tripps started, eyes on the screen, “are either of you going to tell us what’s going on between yous or...?”

“No. It’s nothing, don’t worry about it, ” Dele’s eyes on the screen, tilting his controller and pressing the buttons on his control as his cart slid across the screen, narrowly avoiding a banana peel.

“Says the lad with the screensaver of Eric and his dogs on his phone.”

Dele didn’t say a word, as he focused on the controls of the console handset. 

“If you want us to ask him to leave--”

“No. It’s fine. It’s... nothing, honestly.” Dele said, voice level. Tripps didn’t need to know that when he’d opened the door and saw Eric on the doorstep, how everything hit him all at once and rooted him to the spot like a lightning rod. Fury, disappointment and -- Tripps really didn’t need to know. 

“It’s nothing,” he repeated. 

“Nothing when you two rocked up years ago, and nothing now, which is why you’ve been giving Eric the evils since he’s been here.”

“It’s ...” Dele started. Stopped. Settled on the old chestnut, “Complicated.”

“And the trip to Portugal?”

Eric standing by the fence, his features cast under the strong beam of the floodlights, his hair white blonde, eyes dark blue. Offering them both the option of touch, of being with each other again for a short time. Dele unable to say no.  
The kiss they shared at the edge of the tennis court, with enough heat between them to spark a forest fire in the Algarve. Dele metaphorically stood on the edge, looked down, saw Eric’s face and his own ruin. Threw himself off the cliff face anyway. 

“Made it much more complicated,” he finished. Not even mad when his avatar’s kart got torpedoed by a rogue turtle shell, causing his avatar to tailspin. 

Tripps giving the sympathetic wince of a man who’d _been there_. “Okay,” he exhaled a breath in a hiss, wrinkled his brow. “But -” he drawled, “why did you go? You knew stuff was going to be emotionally dodgy, right? So...”

Dele had a sudden urge for a hoodie, so that he could tug it over his face, now warm with embarrassment. He didn’t, and as such, kept his eyes fixed on the screen. Leaned over to press the button on the console and restart the game. 

“Winks, I guess,” he said, daring to finally look up, only to find himself the recipient of Tripp’s baleful stare. 

“'Kin ell. Pull the other one,” Tripps snorted, “Winks might be a hard one, but he isn’t a knob. If you’d pushed, or if Eric had been a bellend, he’d have backed down.”

“True,” Dele agreed, “but. He’s the one who puts out the fires I tend to start at times. Especially this one, so I owed it to him not to argue.”

“Okay,” Tripps started, “but-- _The Algarve_?”

“When it comes to Eric,” Dele half smiled at himself, but not from amusement. “I do things that make no sense. YOLO, or something like that. I couldn’t say no.”

***

Eric’s sleep deep and dreamless, and he didn’t stir until the sun gleefully stomped on his eyelids, inundating the room with its light and heat. He blinked blearily at the tinted floor to ceiling glass door: sunlight bouncing from wave to wave in the tiny ripples of the pool, to the strip of sea in the distance. Heard the noises of people and the bump of furniture, as they stumbled around the house half awake. The tick tock of the old fashioned clock on the small side table greeted his eyes. Not surprised to see it read 09:00 am.

His flight back to Faro long gone. 

Eric half wished he’d been on it, kickstarting the next stage of his life -- whatever it would be. 

The guest room he’d been tucked into was small. 

Stationed on the ground floor, level with the pool. The idea being that the guest could just get up, go from sleeping to swimming in a few steps. He threw back the covers from the bed, rubbing at his eyes. Half surprised to see his bag perched on a chair beside the low table in the corner of the room. On the surface of the table a transparent wash bag boasting of miniatures: from toothbrush to facewash. 

Vorm, Eric remembered Dele saying a long time ago, had been the son of an innkeeper. Little things to soften the rigours of travel like this ran in his blood: the fluffy towels in the bathroom, newly wrapped bar of soap and shaving kit if he needed it. Eric looked at himself in the mirror, saw his bed head and bleary eyes. 

“Brilliant,” he said aloud to himself. 

Actually, he looked an omnishambles. Unable to hold off anymore, decided to get ready for the day. Before he did that... Eric picked up his phone from the edge of the basin where he’d left it the night before, called up his search engine. Hovering his thumb over the screen, and on an exhale, Eric typed Dele’s name in the cursor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * [DJ Ibiza address book ](https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2005/aug/21/spain.observerescapesection1)
>   * Ibiza without the clubbing [ if foam parties aren't your thing](https://www.travelrepublic.co.uk/blog/ibiza-without-the-clubbing)
> 



	12. Chapter 12

**Music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/cn32l26gsdff9qe/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter11_music.mp3?dl=0) [11.8 MB, 00:22:48]  


**Non-music Version** :  
[MP3 and streaming](https://www.dropbox.com/s/hxkr10bzedmvdk3/FootballRPF_ClearBlueWater_Chapter11_NoMusic.mp3?dl=0) [8.03 MB, 00:20:09]  


“He’s still here?” Dele asked in flinty tones.

“He was _knackered_ , Dele,” Tripps answered, placing a frying pan on the hob. “And not even from our party. Now, _that’s_ upsetting.”

“But--” Dele objected before thinking better of it. Decided Eric’s sleeping arrangements wasn’t worth having a row over. Of _course_ Tripps and Vorm would have offered Eric a place to stay overnight. They were decent blokes, and with Vorm being the son of an innkeeper, that trait was in his blood -- greeting people with comfort and a place to sleep at the end of a long journey. 

Saturday morning, and they were in the kitchen. 

Ibiza being Ibiza - the kitchens were small and narrow, because Ibiza was a place that invited you to be outside. Even with the extension of their build, Vorm and Tripps could only make the kitchen longer, not wider. Whereas the rest of the house was bright on bright with sunlight and white walls, their kitchen a keen contrast, shaded and cool like a leafy tree on a hot day. 

Tripps did an omelette for Dele, wrapped around various Spanish cheeses, served with local fruit and chutney. Dele took his breakfast and sat outside on the back patio, the glare of the view softened by the shades on his face. Tripps on the other side of the glass topped table having a coffee. It was no hardship to look out to a sea view, and to share it with a friend. 

“Wahey,” Tripps greeted. Dele didn’t turn around, nor did he say a word, just listened. “You’re up. Was the room okay?”

“Everything’s lovely, thank you,” Eric’s voice, thick from sleep hit his ear. “I missed my flight, but it’s been worth it so far.”

“Would you like some breakfast?”

“No, just a black coffee with two sugars, if that’s okay. Cheers.”

“No worries, give me a few.”

Although the savoury deliciousness of omelettes hit his nose, the odor snagging his nostrils and dragging him from the room onto the patio, his stomach felt too delicate, too jittery to even think of eating. If asked what had caused it, Eric would have said a combination of too much drink, travel and lack of sleep. Last night, curled under the blankets after a hot shower and in the hazy semi reality hovering between consciousness and sleep, he knew it wasn’t, it really wasn’t. 

Knew it as he had face timed Caro the day before at Faro airport. 

He’d been anxious and jittery then, waiting in Departures for his flight and gate number to be announced. 

“It wasn’t his fault,” Eric’d said with a shake of his head, pacing in the departure lounge. “It never was.”

It had been his fault, watching Dele walk away, telling himself that he’d been on crutches, it wasn’t as if he could have caught up. 

_Liar_. In a world of messaging and well- Nora and Winks- Eric could have reached out, somehow, despite everything. 

“Isn’t it five years too late to tell him this? He might not want to see you after last night,” Caro pointed out in reasonable tones. In the background against the blue and white tiles in her kitchen, she looked rested and peaceful. A far cry from what Eric himself was feeling at the minute. “And, in fairness to him,” she continued, “he’d have reason.”  
Speaking past the lump in his throat, Eric choked out, “Probably. But I have to try.”

Now, in the face of Dele’s studied coolness, Eric at a loss at how to go about things. 

_I’m sorry, Dele. Is it too late to try again? Here I am._

“I googled you last night,” Eric said at last, his inner self face palming at the clumsy beginning. “About Woodrow and everything?” 

He stopped, drumming his fingers on the table. 

The view of the Balearic sea in the near distance drawing his gaze to just admire it. Clear blues, shifting from bright aqua to a deep ultramarine, with the sun dancing on the waves. The island boasted three hundred days of sun a year and it just _felt_ like it. The warmth that pumped in your bones in the first twenty four hours of landing, the greenery of the palm trees and scrub giving way to the bright border of sand which greeted the restless sea. 

“Punching him in front of witnesses was a bad idea, but you had just cause.”

“I thought--” Dele stared ahead, behind mirrored lenses, his voice flat. “We agreed. We didn’t need to know anything else about each other?”

“I -- I. I-- was wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re fine.”

“No, it does matter. I’m sorry,” Eric said in quiet tones. “I should have said to you that a long time ago. I’m so sorry, Dele.”

Dele raised his hand to wave the apology away, as if it meant nothing. Eric grabbed at it, and gently pushed it the table, holding it there, his fingers splayed across Dele’s wrist. Rewarded by Dele looking in his direction for the first time since he’d arrived here, his gaze hidden by his mirrored shades, his features cold. 

“What am I supposed to say?” Dele’s voice just as quiet. “That it’s fine? I‘d always ask myself when I was - when we were-” he shook his head. “I’d always wonder, ‘am I a distraction’, ‘am I noise’?”

“You weren’t,” Eric squeezed Dele’s wrist briefly, “honestly, you weren’t. I - You weren’t noise, you weren’t bad timing. And I’ll always be sorry for making you feel that way. Dele-” he stopped, cleared his throat. “You were the best thing, even amongst the best things, and you made the worst things bearable.”

“Coffee,” Tripps’ voice came out ahead of him. “Hot coffee, incoming.”

Eric slipped his hand from Dele’s, turned to Tripps with a smile of gratitude. 

“Thanks,” he placed his hands around the thick mug of coffee, his emotions tugging between relief and resentment when Tripps joined their table with a glass of juice. But warm appreciation won out by a fair margin. Tripps and Vorm had opened their home to him, allowed him to stay the night - and gave him a chance to say sorry. 

The thing with an apology, he knew, was that the recipient didn’t have to accept it. 

The second thing about apologies, although it was never too late to say thanks, at times, it was too late to say sorry. 

Sipping at his coffee, Eric took one last look at Dele’s profile, and by the time he drained the mug, he understood what he needed to do. 

“I should go,” he said, fishing in his pocket and slipping out his phone. Coffee now finished, and empty mug standing on the table, he turned his attention to the phone screen. “If I book a flight now, I can get into Lisbon by half three, catch a linking flight to Faro and---” he tapped at the information on the screen with his thumbs, paying for his tickets via his online accounts. “Done.” He raised his head and looked at Tripps. “Can you recommend me a taxi service? I just caught the first one leaving the airport coming this way.”

Tripps waved him off, took out his own phone from his pocket, unlocked its screen with a swipe of his thumb. “It’s fine, mate. I’ll sort it. What time do you wish to leave?”

“As soon as, please.”

***

“You’re back to Faro, then?” Dele asked as they stood by the front door, waiting on Eric’s taxi.

The room now back to its function of living room/reception, with its furniture replaced to its former glory, and as such, their voices less echoey.  
“Yeah,” Eric adjusted his backpack on his shoulder. “I’m winding down, selling up.”

Dele’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline in surprise. 

“I know. And before you ask,” Eric waved the question away, “No, I don’t know what I’m going to do next. Probably travel around Portugal for a bit with Ziggy and Bowie. I’ve lived there for most of my life, but haven’t really _seen_ it. Because --” he started, but shook his head. "Whatever happens, happens. Dele--” his voice trailed off. To hell with it, he thought wildly, might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb, as his grandmother would say. 

It’s not as if they would be seeing each other again after today anyway. 

“I loved you, I always did. I just---” he stopped, cleared his throat. “No excuses, I should have...”

Dele’s sunglasses now off his face, giving an unobstructed view of his features. Ironic, since they wouldn’t be seeing each other again after today, so Eric took it all in. The high dark arch of brows, his slightly weird nose, the curve of his mouth. 

“Again,” Eric said when he finally found his voice. “ I’m sorry for making you think you were nothing but noise, that you were a distraction.”

Dele’s eyes widened for a minute, and he nodded, his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he rocked back on his heels. Dele dressed for Ibiza like most Brits, in shortsleeves and distressed jeans with more holes than fabric. 

“And now?”

“Dele--” 

“I just want to know,” Dele said. “It’s either yes, or no.”

“It makes no difference either way,” Eric lifted a shoulder, feeling the door pressing against his shoulder blades.  
Dele smirked, moved a bit closer. 

“It doesn’t matter,” desperate, Eric reached for the door handle, clasped his fingers around it. Thought about the world outside and a life away from this room, and realised -- he didn’t want to go. At least, not alone. 

“It’s -- "  
His voice trailed off, his heart beating faster, his lungs squeezing out air to the point of lightheadedness. Rather like snorkeling, pushing off from the shallows, the ground falling away and him floating in clear, blue water, in danger of being dragged away by the riptide. 

“Hey,” and Dele’s palms now against his cheeks, their foreheads pressed together. “Breathe, Eric. Breathe.”

“You have to give me something,” Eric’s eyes searching Dele’s face, his voice wavering, desperate. His fingers sliding off the door handle. 

“Like what?”

“Dele, I --” he started, his voice at the edge of breaking. Now way past the aching point and unable to push forward. “I- can’t do this alone.”

“I loved you back then,” Dele admitted, his smile faint, his eyes warm. “In spite of everything.” 

“And now?” Eric asked, stroking Dele’s cheek with a shaky thumb. “I love you _now_. It doesn’t matter if you say you don’t. Or if you... can’t. I’m leaving and --”

“You’re not,” Dele said, throwing his arms around Eric’s neck. “You can’t.”

“I can’t?” Eric asked, his voice muffled by his lips against Dele’s shoulder. Unable to resist, he drew Dele against him, his eyes sliding closed for a moment, taking in Dele. All sun warmed, with musk and hints of sticky fruit. 

“You can’t,” Dele repeated, pressing his cheek against Eric’s, feeling the scratchiness of Eric’s beard against his cheek, closing his eyes for a minute as he breathed in the combination of sunshine and him. “You’ve only just arrived.”

“B- but-” 

Dele broke away, but not too far. Marvelling at the fact that Eric came after him, five years later. Showing up at his - okay - his _friends’_ door, with apologies. And it wasn’t _bullshit_ , as if to see who broke first. Eric, finally saying the things Dele didn’t even know he’d been waiting to hear for all this time. 

Only for Eric to leave?

“Stay,” Dele said, his eyes never leaving Eric’s face. “Just stay for the rest of the week. With me.”

“It’s too late to try again,” Eric touched his cheek again with index and forefingers, his voice sad. “I --”

“No,” Dele held Eric’s wrist in place, swiping his thumb over the pulse of it. His words soft and weighted with feeling. “It’s not.”

Eric stood there for a minute, stunned. 

Bit by bit, you saw when the penny dropped, but the cautious light in his eyes still remained. Half exasperated, Dele wondered how Eric had never been able _see_ these feelings across his face, be it then and now. Also in the between the times, all these emotions slumbered, just waiting for Eric to spark them to life again. 

“Dele-”  
“Eric,” he mimicked the frustrated quality in Eric’s voice. 

To put them both out of their misery, Dele took a breath, and said what had been on his heart for far too long. “I do,” and it was as easy as throwing himself off a cliff. Again.

And just in case Eric had doubts, he spelled it out, “I love you _now_ , Eric Dier.”

Eric pressed his forehead against his, as they rocked back and forth together like football teammates who scored a beauty of a goal. The sheer simple wonder of it filling Dele up, swamping him with unalloyed joy. The heat of Eric’s body against his, the splash of sunlight even in the early fall filling the room they were standing in with light. 

Them, here, by the door of their friends’ house. 

The cautious cast in Eric’s eyes gone, replaced by a bright hope. 

Dele had no choice but to finish, because why not. 

“And I will,” he said, unable to dim his grin. “I always will.”

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> *waves sparklers*
> 
>  **Podficcer's Notes**  
>  MAJOR THANKS to kaixo for proposing this project, sticking with the writing of it even when this thing got a life of its own and ran out of control, and being the best kind of cheerleader along the way. I hope you've all enjoyed this podfic and that if you did decide to listen to the music/effects version that the soundscapes I created helped elevate this fic to another dimension for you.
> 
> A thousand apologies for the HIGHLY DODGY Portuguese (see the [outtakes file](https://www.dropbox.com/s/qekixfls0d1c1ia/CBW_Outtakes.mp3?dl=0) for the real truth of me trying to speak ANY AND ALL languages during this thing! I really don't know what possessed me to say "sure, this project with all the Portuguese seems fine." I did my best, I assure you.
> 
> This project was a JOURNEY from start to finish and now marks the longest podfic project I've done to date. I hope I've done it justice and I do hope you all enjoy.
> 
> As I'm uploading all these files after I really ought to be in bed, I'm sure I've made a mistake with the uploads/links, so if anything doesn't work right, many apologies and please let me know and I'll correct it.
> 
> Also! I finished editing and posting this podfic just as the 2018 US Open tennis was beginning. Despite having a partner who used to be a rather serious tennis player, I have never had any interest in the sport, can name approximately five tennis players, and would actually do anything possible to find myself in another room when my partner was watching tennis on the television. I am now on day THREE of sitting around my living room voluntarily watching tennis for my own entertainment. My partner is thrilled. This podfic may have ruined me forever.
> 
>  
> 
> (Author's notes)
> 
> Thank you so much to the following people: itsadrizzit for actually committing to doing this project with me (although it kept getting bigger and bigger) and poking at me to finish. Also, for making the words sing off the page. Thanks again for doing this with me, although the story kept ever changing and didn't settle until the end. Also, thanks to Eafy70 for beta reading and keeping this sane. For dreamingbook doing a cold read and feedback. Thanks to caixa and itsadrizzit for cheer leading me on and pushing me to get this over the line. Because I knew they were waiting for progress reports, I had to... progress. Any mistakes are all mine.
> 
> If you've gotten to the end, thank you so much for coming along for the ride, and I hope it's been a great listen/read.


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